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THE 


CAMBRIDGE  BOOK 


POETEY   AND    SONQ 

SELECTED  FROM 

ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  AUTHORS 

BY 

CHARLOTTE  FISKE   BATES 

H 

AUTHOK  OF  "  RISK  AND  OTHER  POEMS  " 

COMPILER   OF  "  THE   LONGFELLOW  BIRTHDAY   BOOK,"   "  SEVEN 

VOICES   OF   SYMPATHY  " 


NEW   YORK  :  46  East  14th  Street 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON :  100  TLRcnASE  Street 


GIFT  OF 

Copyright,  1882, 
By  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


•    ••  • 

•  •       • 

•  •    •• 

•  •       • 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 

fHs  JFrienU 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW, 

THIS    WORK  IS   DEDICATED. 


Thy  name,  O  poet,  shall  go  sounding  on 
While  breaks  the  wave  on  shore  of  Machigonne.* 
The  sky  and  ocean  whence  thy  genius  stole 
The  charm  which  draws  the  universal  soul, 
Alone  remain  the  same  as  on  that  day 
Now  lying  five  and  seventy  years  away. 
These  type  the  fate  of  what  thy  voice  hath  sung; 
Like  sea  and  sky,  the  heart  is  ever  young. 
Man's  joys  and  griefs  a  thousand  years  ago, 
Throb  still  the  same  as  do  the  waters  flow; 
The  light  and  dark,  as  then,  divide  his  sky, 
Though  earth  has  seen  so  many  millions  die. 
Who  best  meets  man,  not  men,  as  ages  move. 
Will  be  secure  of  human  praise  and  love ; 
Who  best  meets  man  will  share,  and  only  he. 
With  heaven  and  ocean,  immortality. 

C.  F.  R 


*  The  Indian  name  of  Portland. 


PEE  FACE. 


Though  text-books  of  every  variety  abound,  and  many  per- 
sons assert  the  old  to  be  better  than  the  new,  yet  every  year 
sees  no  inconsiderable  number  added  to  their  list.  It  is  folly 
to  suppose  that  any  one  prepares  a  work  merely  for  the  sake  of 
doing  it,  and  careful  examination  proves  that  every  successor  in 
a  given  field  has  some  superiority  of  plan,  comprehensiveness, 
detail,  or  material  to  recommend  it.  Something  it  may  lack 
that  others  have ;  but  it  also  has  something  that  others  lack.  So 
it  is  with  compilations  of  poetry.  Every  one  is  found  faulty 
somewhere,  by  somebody,  nor  can  it  be  imagined  possible,  with 
the  varied  tastes  of  men,  that  the  work  of  one  should  be  so  all- 
embracing  as  to  leave  no  intelligent  reader  disappointed.  The 
compiler  of  this  volume  has  not  pretended  to  make  what  she 
has  never  found,  —  a  perfect  compilation, — and  will  be  gratified 
if  this  prove  so  well  done  as  to  save  it  from  the  charge  of 
being  a  supernumerary.  Whatever  its  defects,  it  still  carries 
out,  in  the  main,  her  aim  in  undertaking  it,  which  was,  — 

First.  —  To  represent  the  genius  of  woman  as  fairly  as  that 
of  man. 

Second.  —  To  the  extent  of  the  compiler's  power,  to  give 
those  poets  their  just  dues  who  have  hitherto  not  had  them. 

Third.  —  To  quote  largely,  though  in  brief  passages,  from 
those  authors  whose  works,  through  their  uninviting  looks, 
length,  or  subject,  or  the  undue  bias  imparted  by  ridicule  and 
one-sided  criticism,  are  generally  seldom  read,  and  but  imper- 
fectly represented. 


vi  PREFACE. 


Fourth.  —  To  bring  together  not  only  copious  extracts 
from  the  standard  and  popular  writers  of  Great  Britain  and 
America,  but  also  a  goodly  number  of  poems  from  the  very 
latest  volumes  of  both  countries,  and  a  representation,  through 
one  poem,  at  least,  of  those  whose  writings  are  as  yet  un- 
collected, and  whose  names  have  not  appeared  in  other  com- 
pilations. 

The  alphabetic  arrangement  of  the  work  —  prepared  virtu- 
ally in  portions;  not  offered  complete  to  the  printers  —  de- 
manded unusual  readiness  in  the  choice  and  supply  of  material, 
and  the  temporary  omissions  of  chance  or  necessity  placed 
authors  and  poems  desired  for  the  body  of  the  work  in  its 
supplement.  A  glance  at  the  latter  will  quickly  discover,  from 
its  value,  that,  though  coming  after,  it  is  no  afterthought. 

A  number  of  names  on  the  compiler's  list  were,  through 
accident,  wholly  omitted,  while  others  were  left  out  through 
want  of  space  on  account  of  the  length  of  poems,  or  because 
extracts  could  not  be  seasonably  obtained.  Positive  knowl- 
edge of  insufficient  space  excluded  translations  from  the  work, 
and  though  ballads  and  anonymous  poems  were  in  the  plan, 
there  was  found  to  be  very  meagre  room  for  even  these. 

In  comparing  the  extent  of  representation,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered that  the  space  occupied  by  poems,  no  less  than  their 
number,  must  be  considered.  Other  things  being  equal,  the 
compiler  welcomes  brevity,  and  the  more  this  element  prevails 
in  an  author,  or  the  more  his  works  admit  of  short  and  striking 
quotation,  the  more  variously  can  he  be  represented.  It  often 
happens  that  one  long  lyric  claims  as  much  room  as  five  or  six 
short  ones,  while  a  mere  glance  at  the  index  would  seem  to 
indicate  injustice. 

To  the  editor's  sincere  regret,  and  through  circumstances 
over  which  she  had  no  control,  Joaquin  Miller,  John  White 
Chad  WICK,  and  Walt  Whitman  are  unrepresented  in  this 
volume ;  while  the  poems  from  Helen  Jackson,  Dr.  Joyce, 
and  Edgar  Fawcett  are,  from  a  like  necessity,  not  those  at 
first  selected  from  their  works. 


PREFACE.  vii 


The  publishers  acknowledge  the  generous  courtesy  of  the 
following  houses  in  granting  the  use  of  their  publications : 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. ;  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.;  Harper 
&  Brothers ;  Charles  Scribner's  Sons ;  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co. ; 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons ;  Lee  &  Shepard  ;  D.  Appleton  &  Co. ; 
The  Century  Company  ;  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. ;  and  R.  Worth- 
ington. 

The  editor  also  recognizes  the  private  courtesy  of  many, 
among  whom  are  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  Richard 
Watson  Gilder,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  John  Townsend 
Trowbridge,  William  Winter,  Edgar  Fawcett,  Edna 
Dean  Proctor,  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  Louise  Chandler 
MouLTON,  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr, 
and  Louisa  Parsons  Hopkins. 

Justice  requires  the  statement  that  this  compilation  has 
occupied  the  leisure  intervals  of  a  busy  life  for  but  fifteen 
months ;  also  that  it  has  been  prepared  entirely  without  aid ; 
and  that  a  thorough  examination  of  the  authors'  works,  where 
accessible  —  as  in  the  majority  of  cases  they  were  —  made  the 
selections,  as  largely  as  possible,  independent  of  those  prepared 
by  others,  though  of  necessity,  choice  has  often  proved 
coincident. 

C.  F.  B. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOE 

Abide  with  Me Lyte 353 

Abou  Ben  Adhem Hunt, 299 

About  Husbands, Sctxe, 778 

Abraham  Lincoln, Stodilard, 540 

Absence, Kemble. 317 

A  Character, Ji.  Ji.  Browning,     .    .  G7 

A  Character, Dryden, 722 

A  Character J.  T,  Fields,  ....  226 

A  Character 11.  B.  Lytton 753 

A  Couiuion  Thought, Timrod, 855 

A  Day  in  Sussex, Blunt, 803 

A  Day  of  Sunshine, U.  W.  Longfellow, .    .  346 

Adilress  to  a  Mummy, H.  Smith, 511 

Aildress  to  Certahi  Goldfishes, U.  Coleridge,  ....  13.i 

A  Death-Bed, J.  Aldrich, 8 

A  Desire, Spalding, 863 

A  Dirge, Winter, 6«1 

A  Dream, A.  Cary, 121 

A  Dream's  Awakening, S.  M.  B.  Piatt,  .    .    .  420 

A  Drop  of  Dew,      .     • Marvell, 367 

Advice  on  Church  Behavior, « Herbert, 264 

Advice  to  One  of  Simple  Life, Crabbe, 718 

A  Face  in  the  Street, G.  P.  Lathrop,   .    .    .  336 

A  Faithful  Picture  of  Ordinary  Society, Cmrper, 715 

A  Familiar  Letter  to  Several  Correspondents,    ....  Holmes, 732 

A  Farewell, Kingsley, 321 

Afar  in  the  Desert Pringle 437 

Affliction, A.  T.  I)e  Vere,    ...  185 

A  Forsaken  Garden, Su'inbume,     ....  553 

A  Forest  Walk Street 548 

A  Four  o'clock Spofford, 531 

After  All, Winter, 659 

After  a  Mother's  Death, E.  Cook, 150 

After  Death  in  Arabia, £,'.  Arnold 21 

After  the  Ball, Peiry, 414 

After  the  Burial Lmcell, 350 

After  the  Rain T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  11 

A  Funeral  Thought B.  Taylor, 565 

Against  Kash  Opinions, Crabbe, 165 

Against  Skeptical  Philosophy, Campbell, 117 

Age, Rogers, 463 

Aged  Sophocles  Addressing  the  Athenians, A.  Fields 224 

A  Happy  Life, Wofton, 676 

A  Hospital, - E.  Spencer,     ....  527 

A  Letter Phelps. 417 

Alexander  at  Persepolis Michell, 370 

Alexander  Selkirk, Cowper, 161 

Alexander's  Feast, Dryden, 199 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave, Sarqent, 469 

A  Little  before  Death H.  K.  White 636 

A  Little  While Bonar, 48 

All  Change ;  no  Death, E.  Young,      ....  683 


xii  CONTENTS. 


All  Earthly  Joy  Returns  in  Pain Dunbar, 208 

All  in  a  Lifetime, Stedman, 539 

All  the  Rivers, Phelps, 416 

All  Things  Once  are  Things  Forever,     .......  Lord  Houghton, .    .    .  289 

All  Things  Sweet  when  Prized, A.  T.  De  Fere,    ...  186 

All  Together, H.  H.  Brmomelt,  ...  57 

Alone, H.  H.  Broionell,  ...  58 

A  Lost  Chord, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  441 

A  Lover's  Prayer,  .    .    .     • Wyatt, 677 

A  Love  Song, M.  A.  De  Vere,  ...  317 

A  March  Violet, Lazarus 337 

A  Match, Swinburne,     ....  555 

Ambition, G.  Houghton, ....  285 

Ambition, E.  Young, 683 

Amends, liichardsvn,    ....  458 

America, Dobell, 189 

A  Mvissel  Shell, Thaxter, 587 

A  Name  in  the  Sand, Gould, 238 

An  Author's  Complaint,    .     .    .    .    y Pope, 765 

And  Thou  hast  Stolen  a  Jewel, Massey, 368 

And  Were  That  Best  ? Gilder, 233 

An  Evening  Reverie, Bryant, 80 

An  Epitaph, Prior, 773 

Angelic  Care, E.  Spencer,     ....  528 

An  Idle  Poet, Robertson 851 

Annabel  Lee, Poe. 423  - 

An  October  Picture, Collier 143 

An  Old  Song  Reversed, Stoddard, 540 

An  Open  Secret, Mason, &i4 

Answered, P.  Gary, 127 

Antony  to  Cleopatra, Lytle, .353 

An  Unthrift, Braddock, 805 

An  Untimely  Thought, T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  10 

A  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love Marloive, 842 

A  Petition  to  Time, B.  W.  Proctor,   ...  444 

A  Picture Street, 549 

A  Picture  of  Ellen, Scott, 477 

Apollo  Belvedere, • W.  W.  Gay,  .    .    .    .  820 

A  Portrait, E.  B.  Broioning,      .    .  63 

Apostrophe  to  Ada, Byron, 105 

Apostrophe  to  Hope, Campbell, 117 

Apostrophe  to  Liberty, Addison, 3 

Apostrophe  to  Light, Milton, 381 

Apostrophe  to  Popular  Applause, Caivper, 157 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean, Byron, 100 

Apostrophe  to  the  Poet's  Sister Wordsworth,  ....  667 

Apostrophe  to  the  Sun, Percival, 411 

Apostrophe  to  the  Whimsical, Crabbe, 165 

A  Prayer  in  Sickness, B.  W.  Procter,    .    .    .  445 

April W.  Morris.      ....  390 

A  Protest J.  T.  Fields,    ....  226 

A  Question  Answered, Mack-ay, 365 

Archie. P.  Gary, 125 

A  Request, Landor 328 

Argument, Tupper, 617 

A  Scene  in  the  Highlands, Scott, 477 

Ashes  of  Roses, E.  Goodale,    ....  237 

Asking  for  Tears, S.  M.  B.  Piatt,   ...  421 

Ask  Me  no  More, Carew, 118 

Ask  Me  no  More, Tennyson, 578 

A  Sleep, Prescott, 434 

A  Snow-Drop, Spofford, 531 

A  Snow-Storm, Eastman, 208 

A  Song  of  Content, J.J.  Piatt,      ....  419 

A  Song  of  Doubt, Holland, 271 

A  Song  of  Faith, Holland, 272 

Aspirations  after  the  Infinite, Akenside, 7 

Aspirations  of  Youth, Montgomery,  ....  384 

A  Spring  Day,    ....             Bloomjield, 40 


CONTENTS,  xiii 


As  Slow  our  Ship, Moore, 388 

Assurance, E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  •  64 

A  State's  Need  of  Virtue, Thomson, 694 

A  Strip  of  Blue, Larcom, 332 

A  Summer  Moodj Hayne, 265 

A  Summer  Morning, McKay, 842 

A  Summer  Noon  at  Sea, Sargent, 471 

A  Sunset  Picture, Falconer, 218 

At  a  Club  Dinner, Mnckay, 756 

At  Divine  Disposal, Burbidge, 808 

At  Dawn, J.  C.  IL  JJorr,      .    .    .  1{)6 

A  Tempest, Bloomjield,      ....  40 

At  Home, C.  G.  Rossetti,     ...  466 

ATlumght, Gilder, 2:>J 

A  Thought  of  the  Past, Savf/ent, 470 

A  Thrush  in  a  Gilded  Cage,    . Crdnch, 173 

At  Last, Stoddard, 540 

At  the  Church-gate, Thackeray,     ....  685 

At  the  Forge, A.  Fields. 224 

At  the  Last, J.  C.  li.  Dorr,      ...  193 

At  Sea, U.  H,  Brownell, ...  59 

At  Sea, Jennison, 833 

At  Sea, Moulton, 845 

Auf  Wiedersehen, Loicell, 351 

Auld  Robin  Gray, Barnard. 30 

Austerity  of  Poetry, M.  Arnold 26 

Autobiography, Havergal, 823 

Autumn, Hopkins, 829 

Autumnal  Sonnet AUinaham,     ....  18 

Autumn  Song, Hutchinson,    ....  830 

Avarice, E.  Spenser,     ....  525 

A  Voice  from  Afar, Newman, 396 

Awaking  of  the  Poetical  Faculty, Baker, 45 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra, Tennyson, 582 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea, Cunningham,      ...  180 

A  Wife, Dnjden 206 

A  Woman's  Love, Hay, 254 

A  Woman's  Question, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  442 

A  Woman's  Way, Bunner, 808 


B. 

Ballad, Hood, 284 

Barbara, A.  Smith 604 

Barbara  Frietchie, J.  G.  Whittier,  ...  642 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic Hoice, 289 

Battle  of  the  Baltic, Campbell, 114 

Bay  Billy, Gassaway 229 

BeatilUi, Symonds, 658 

Beatitude, A.  T.  De  Vere,   ...  186 

Beauties  of  Morning, Beattie, 34 

Beautiful  Death, Dryden, 206 

Beauty's  Innnortality, Keats, 312 

Becalmed  at  Eve Clouqh, 131 

Beethoven Thaxter 590 

Before  Dawn, Thompson, 854 

Before  the  Bridal, B.  Taylor, 566 

Before  the  Prime, Osgood, 403 

Behind  the  Mask, IVhitney, 637 

Belinda, Pope, 767 

Bell  and  Brook S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  136 

Bending  between  Me  and  the  Taper, A.  T.  De  Vere,   ...  185 

Benevolence, Sigoumey, 500 

Be  Quiet,  Do, Mackay, 757 

Betrayal, Lanier 329 

Beyond  Recall, Bradley, 62 

Bingeu  on  the  Rhine, Norton, 397 


xiv  CONTENTS. 


Birds  and  their  Loves, Thomson, 503 

Blessed  are  They  that  Mourn, Bryant 72 

Books Crabbe, 170 

Bosom  Sin, Herbert, 265 

Boyhood, Allston 19 

Break,  Break,  Break, Teimyson, 584 

Breathes  there  the  Man, Scott, 478 

Breathings  of  Spring Hem  cms, 260 

Broken  Friendships S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  136 

Bugle  Songj Tennyson, 577 

Bnrial  of  Sir  John  Moore, Wolfe 665 

Burns, Halleck, 249 

But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  Lose, E.  D.  Proctor,     .    .    .  446 

Byron's  Remarkable  Prophecy, isuron, 103 

By  the  Autumn  Sea, Hayne, 256 

By  the  Dead,          Latghton, 324 


Calling  the  Dead S.  M.  B.  Piatt,  ...  421 

Calm  and  Tempest  at  Night  on  Lake  Leman,    ....  Byron 101 

Calm  on  the  Bosom  of  our  God, Hemans, 263 

Caradoc,  the  Bard  of  the  Cymrians, JE.  B.  Lytton, ....  839 

Careless  Content, Byrom, 705 

Cato's  Soliloquy, Addison, 4 

Cayuga  Lake Street, 547 

Changes, B.  B.  Lytton,  ....  840 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade, Tennyson, 684 

Charity, Dryden, 206 

Charity, G.  Homqhton,      ...  286 

Charity, E.  H.  Whittier,  ...  639 

Charity  Gradually  Pervasive, Pope, 431 

Charles  XIL, S.  Johnson,     ....  308 

Cheerfulness  in  Misfortune, E.  Young, 684 

Circumstance,    .     .' Tennyson, 585 

City  Experience Leland, 744 

Cleansing  Fires, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  442 

Clear  the  Way, Mackay, 362 

Cleon  and  I, Mackay, 362 

Cleopatra  Embarking  on  the  Cydnus, Hervey, 267 

Cold  Comfort, Blunt, 803 

Columbus Sir  A.  De  Fere,  ...  184 

Come,  Let  us  Anew, Wesley, 633 

Come  not  when  I  am  Dead, Tennyson, 585 

Come,  ye  Disconsolate, Moore 387 

Compensation, Cranch, 174 

Complaint  and  Reproof, S.  T.  Coleridge, ...  141 

Complete,       Collier, 143 

Conclusions, P.  Cary, 126 

Concord  Fight, Emerson,    .    .    .    .    .  215 

Condition  of  Spiritual  Communion, Tennyson,  .    .    .    .    .  575 

Conscience, E.  Young 678 

Consecration, C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

Consolation,       E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  63 

Constancy, .  Suckling, 550 

Constant  Effort  Necessary  to  Support  Fame,   ....  Shakespeare,  ....  486 

Content  and  Rich, Sotifluvell, 525 

Contentation, Cotton, 154 

Contentment, Thomson, 597 

Contoocook  River, E.  D.  Proctor,     .    .    .  447 

Controversialists, Crabbe, 168 

Convention, Howells, 292 

Coquette, Boberfson, 861 

Counsel,          A.  Cary, 121 

Coiiplets  from  Locksley  Hall, Tennyson 573 

Courage, G.  Houghton,      .    .    .  285 

Courage, Thaxter, 589 


CONTENTS. 


XV 


Courtesy,  . 

Cradle  Song, 

Cradle  Song, 

Critics,  .    . 

Critics,  .    . 

Cruelty,     . 

Cuba,     .    . 

Cui  Bono,  . 

Cui  Bono,  . 

Cupid  Grown  Careful, 


.  /.  T.  Fields,  ....  229 

.  Holland,     .    .    ,    .    .  2iS 

.     Tennyson, 579 

.  E.  B.  Brouniing,      ,    .  681 

.    Byron, 704 

.  E.  Young,  .....  686 

.    Sargent, 471 

.     G.  Arnold 23 

.     Carlyle 119 

.    Croly 178 


D. 

Daily  Dying, E.  D.  Proctor,    ...  448 

Daisy, O.  Houghton 281 

Day  Dreaming, Kimball 322 

-      ■  -  ~   '■  ...  120 

...  301 

...  492 


Dead  Love, P.  Cary,      .  . 

Death, Hunt,      .    .  . 

Death, Shelley, .    .  . 

Death  amid  the  Snows, Thomson,    .  . 

Death  and  Resurrection, Seattle,  .    .  . 

Death  in  Life, M.  M.  Dodge, 

Deatli  of  the  Day, Landor, .    .  . 

Death  the  Leveller, Shirley,      .  . 

December, Morris,   .    .  . 

December, Hopkins,     .  . 

Decoration, Higginson, .  . 

Decoration  Ode, Timrod. .    .  . 

Delay, Bushnell,    .  . 

Delay, Saxton,  .    .  . 

Departure  of  the  Swallow, W.  Howitt  .  . 

Dependence, Jennison,    ,  . 

Descanting  on  Illness, Cmoper, .    .  . 

Description  of  the  One  he  would  Lore, Wyatt,   .    .  . 

Deserted  Nests, Phelps.  .    .  . 

Despite  All, Drummond,  . 

Destiny, T.  B.  Aldrich, 

Die  down,  O  Dismal  Day, D.  Gray,    .  . 

Different  Sources  of  Funeral  Tears, E.  Young,  .  . 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier, Boker,    .     .  . 

Discontent, Thaxter,     .  . 

Disdain  Returned, Carew,   .    .  . 


35 
191 
328 


828 
269 
855 

86 
852 
296 
833 
715 
677 
417 
198 

10 
822 
682 

47 
586 
118 
156 
288 
790 


Distance  no  Barrier  to  the  Soul, Cotcley,  .    .    . 

Divorced, Lord  Houghton, 

Doctor  Drollhead's  Cure, Anonymous,    . 

Dolcino  to  Margaret, Kingsley 321 

Domestic  Happiness, Campbell, 116 

Door  and  Window H.  li.  Dorr 718 

Dorothy  Q., Holmes, 277 

Dow'sFlat, Harte 727 

Dreams, B.Broioning,  ....  71 

Drifting, Bead, 456 

Driving  Home  the  Cows, K.  P.  Osgood,     ...  403 

Dullness Pope, 766 

Dying Buchanan,     ....  807 


E. 

Early  Death  and  Fame M.  Arnold, 

Early  Rising, Saxe, .    . 

Early  Summer, Hopkins, 

Easter-day O.  Wilde, 

Easter  Morning, Ma^e,     . 

East  London, .    ,  M.  Arnold, 

Effect  of  Contact  with  the  World, E.  Young, 


25 

777 
828 
647 
360 
24 
679 


xvi  CONTENTS. 


Effort  the  Gauge  of  Greatness,      E.  Young, 080 

Egyptian  Serenade, Curtis, 181 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard, T.  Gray, 240 

End  of  all  Earthly  Glory Sliakespeai-e 487 

Endurance, Allen, 14 

Entered  into  Rest, Bolton,        805 

Enviable  Age, S.  Johnson,    ....  308 

Epistle  to  Augusta, Byron, 95 

Epigram, S.  T.  Coleridge,      .    .  711 

Epitaph Hervey,       .'....  268 

Epitaph, B.  Jouson,       ....  310 

Epithalamium, BrainarO, 52 

Equinoctial, Whitney, 63P 

Equipoise,       Preston, 434 

Estrangement  through  Trifles Moore, 3>5 

Evelyn  Hope Ji.  Broioning,      ...  6!) 

Evening, Croly, 178 

Evening, Wordsworth,  ....  675 

Evening  Prayer  at  a  Girls'  School, Hemans, 262 

Evening  Song Lanier, 328 

Eventide, Burbidge, 800 

Every  Day, Allen, 17 

Excessive  Praise  or  Blame, Pope,      ......  432 

Excess  to  be  Avoided, Tiiomson, 596 

Exhortation  to  Marriage, JRoyers, 461 

Exile  of  Erin, Campbell 112 

External- Impressions  Dependent  on  the  Soul's  Moods,  .     Crabbe, 167 

Extract  from  "  A  Reverie  in  the  Grass," AJackay 365 

Extracts  from  Miss  Biddy's  Letters,       Moore, 760 


Faciebat, Abbey, 2 

Fair  and  Fifteen, liedden, 848 

Fair  and  Unworthy, Ayton, 798 

Faith, Kembte, 318 

Faith  in  Doubt, Tennyson, 575 

Faith  in  Unfaith, Scott, 479 

Faithless  Nellie  Gray Hood, 739 

Faithless  Sally  Brown, Hood, 740 

Falling  Stars, Trench, 006 

False  Appearances, Shakespeare,  ....  485 

False  Terrors  in  View  of  Death, E.  Young, 682 

Fame, R.  B.  Lytton,      ...  753 

Fancy, Keats, 311 

Fantasia Spofford, 630 

Fare  Thee  Well, Byron, 02 

Farewell, Symonds, 559 

Farewell, 1  haxter, 5i^6 

Farewell,  Life, Hood, 2^3 

Farewell  of  the  Soul  to  the  Body, Sigoumty,      ....  499 

Farewell,  Renown, Dobson,       190 

Farewell  to  Nancy Burns, 84 

Fatherland  and  Mother  Tongue, Lover, 748 

Father  Molloy, Lover, 748 

Fear  no  More, Shakespeare,  ....  488 

Fear  of  Death, Shakespeare,  ....  487 

February, MorHs, 389 

Few  in  Many, li.  B.  Lytton,       .    .     .  752 

Field  Flowers Campbell, Ill 

Fingers, Kay, 836 

First  Appearance  at  the  Odeon, J.  T.  Fields,  ....  227 

Five J.C.li.  Dorr,     ...  195 

Florence  Nightingale, E.  Arnold,      ....  22 

Florence  Vane,       P.  P.  Cooke,   ....  151 

Flower  and  Fruit, .     Thomas, 853 

Flowers  without  Fruit,  . Newman,    .    .         .    .  396 


CONTENTS.  xvii 


Folly  of  Litigation, Crabbe, 164 

For  a  Servant Wither, 663 

For  a'  That  and  a'  That, Bums, 82 

For  a  Widower  or  Widow Wither, 662 

Forbearance, Emerson,    .....  215 

Forget  Me  Not, Sargent, 469 

Foreknowledge  Undesirable, Tupper, 620 

Forever O'lieilly, 400 

Forever  Unconfessed, Lord  Houghton, .    .    .  288 

Forever  with  the  Lord, Movtgomeri/,  ....  385 

For  his  Child's  Sake, Tennyson, 677 

For  my  own  Monument, Prior, 772 

France, GoUfsmith,      ....  236 

Friend  after  Friend  Departs, Montgomery,  ....  384 

Friendship, Simms,    ......  503 

Friendship  in  Age  and  Sorrow, Crabbe, 168 

Fritz  and  I, C.  F.  Adams 686 

From  "  Absalom " Willis, 654 

From  "  An  Ode  to  the  Rain," S.T.Coleridge,.     .    .  710 

From "  A  Preacher," Webster, 629 

From  a  "  Vision  of  Spring  in  Winter," Swinburne, 552 

From  a  Window  in  Chamouni, Afonlton, 846 

From  "  Childhood," I'aughan, 022 

From  "  Christmas  Antiphones," Stcinlmme,     ....  556 

From  "  Dejection," S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .     .  136 

From  "  Eloisa  to  Abelard," Pope, 429 

From  Far, Marston, 843 

From  Friend  to  Friend, Symonds 560 

From  "  Intimations  of  Immortality," Wordsworth,  ....  670 

Fi"om  "  Lines  composed  in  a  Concert  Room,"    .    .    ,    .  S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  710 

From  "  Lines  to  a  Louse," Btirns, 698 

From  "Making Poetry," Havergal 826 

From  Mire  to  Blossom, S.  Longfellow,    .    .    .  346 

From  •'  No  Age  is  Content," Earl  of  Surrey,  ...  551 

From  "  Nothing  to  Wear," W.  A.'  Butler,.    ...  701 

From  "  Poverty," Wither, 662 

From  "  Rules  and  Lessons,"  . Vaughan, 624 

From  "  St.  Mary  Magdalen," Vaughan, 622 

From  "  The  Christian  Politician," Vaughan, 623 

From  "  The  Cock  and  the  Fox," Dry'den, 722 

From  the  "Elixir," Herbert, 827 

From  the  "  Exequy  on  his  Wife," Kinq, 836 

From  the  Flats, Laiier, 328 

From  the  "  Lay  of  Horatius," Macau/ay, 354 

From  "  The  Ode  on  Shakespeare," Spraque, 534 

From  "  The  Sensitive  Plant," Shelley,.    .....  493 

From  "The  Thief  and  the  Cordelier," Prior, 774 

From  "To  a  Lady  with  a  Guitar," Shelley 495 


G. 

Gancing  to  and  Ganging  frae, E.  Cool', 150 

Garden  Song, Tennyson 580 

Genius, Byron, 99 

George  Eliot, Phelps, 416 

Glasgow, A.  Smith, 505 

Gleaner's  Song, Bloomjield, 43 

God's  Patience, . Preston, 435 

God,  the  only  dust  Judge. Bums, 85 

Goethe  (Memorial  Verses), M.Arnold,      ....  25 

Go,  Forget  me, Wolfe, 665 

Go  not,  Happy  Day, Tennyson 581 

Good  Counsel, Chaitcer 811 

Good  Life,  Long  Life,    .    .    .    c Johnson,      .....  310 

Goo«l  Counsel  of  Polonius  to  Laertes, Shakespeare,  ....  485 

Good  Morrow, Heyirood, 268 

Goodness, E.  B.  Browning,      .    .  688 


xviii  CONTENTS, 


Gk)odNew8, Kimball, 319 

Good  Njgbt, Shelley,      .....  495 

Gray, Ticknor,     .....  854 

Greece,      Byron, 105 

Greeu  Things  Growing, Craik. 170 

Grief  for  the  Loss  of  the  Dead,      . Quarles 451 

Guardian  Spirits, Rogers 464 

Gulf-weed, Fenner, 224 


H. 

Hallowed  Ground, Campbell,  .    .    .    .    •  108 

Hand  in  Hand  with  Angels, Larco-m, 332 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes, Larcom, 329 

Happiness, Mackay, 757 

Happiness  in  Little  Things  of  the  Present, Trench, 605 

Happy  are  They, A.  T.  De  Vere,   ...  185 

Hark  to  the  Shouting  Wind, Timrod, 855 

Harmosan, Trench, 606 

Harsh  Judgments, Faber, 216 

Harvesting, B/oomfield,      ....  41 

Harvest  Time, Thomson, 592 

Health  Necessary  to  Happy  Life, Thomson., 597 

Heart  Essential  to  Genius, Simms, 502 

Heart-glow, Whitney, 638 

Heart  Oracles, M.  M.  Dodge 192 

Heart  Superior  to  Head, Jiogers, 461 

Heaven  near  the  Virtuous Larcom, 333 

Heliotrope, Kimball, 319 

Helvellyn Scott, 481 

Her  Conquest, Russell, 851 

Hereafter, Spofford, 529 

Heroes, E.  D.  Proctor^    .    •    .  448 

Her  Roses, Jennison, 832 

Hester, Lamb, 325 

Hie  Jacet, Moulton, 846 

Hidden  Joys,      .    .    .    ; Blanchard,     ....  801 

Hidden  Sins O'neilly, 401 

Highland  Mary, Bums, 85 

Hints  of  Pre-existence, Tupper, 619 

History  of  a  Life, B.  W.  Proctor,   ...  445 

Hohenlinden, Campbell, 112 

Homage, Winter,       659 

Home  and  Heaven, Very, 627 

Home,  Wounded, Dobell, 189 

Hope, Goldsmith, 237 

Hope  for  All, Tennyson, 574 

Hope  in  Adversity, Campbell, 116 

How  are  Songs  Begot  and  Bred  ? Stoddard, 541 

How  Cyrus  laid  the  Cable, Saxe, 775 

How  Delicious  is  the  Winning, Campbell, 110 

How  the  Heart's  Ease  first  Came, Herrick, 266 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix,  R .  Browning,     ...  70 

How  to  Deal  with  Common  Natures, Hill, 827 

Hudson  River, .    Parsons, 408 

Humanity, E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  689 

Husband  to  Wife, Tennyson, 579 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Valley  of  Chamouni,      .    .  S.T.Coleridge,.    .    .  138 

Hymn  for  Anniversary  Marriage  Days, Withers, 662 

Hymn  from  "  Motherhood," Hopkins, 829 

Hymn  to  Trust, Holmes, 279 

Hymn  to  Contentment, Pamelt, 407 

Hymn  to  Cynthia, Jonson, 310 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers, H.  Smithy 510 


CONTENTS. 


XIX 


I  Count  my  Time  by  Times  that  I  Meet  Thee,    ....  Qilder, 232 

Ideals, Fawcett, 219 

1  Die  for  thy  Sweet  Love, B.  W.  Procter,    ...  446 

If M.  R.  Smith,  ....  613 

If  it  Must  Be, D.  Gray, 822 

If  this  Be  All, A.  Bronte, 53 

If  Thou  Wert  by  my  Side Heber, 258 

If  We  Had  but  a  Day, Dickinson, 188 

If  You  Love  me L.  Clark 128 

1  in  Thee  and  Thou  in  Me, Cranch, 176 

Ilka  Blade  o' Grass  Keps  its  ain  Drap  o' Dew Ballantine,     ....  28 

Ill-chosen  Pursuits, Tupper, 614 


Ill-christened, Tupper, 

II  Penseroso, Milton 376 

Imagined  Reply  of  Eloisa, Hoice, 289 

I'm  Growing  Old, Saxe, 474 

Imitation, liichardsan,     ....  459 

Immortality M.  Arnold 24 

I'm  not  a  Single  Man, Hood 737 

Impressions  du  Matin, O.  Wilde, 648 

In  a  Graveyard, Hay, 253 

In  a  Letter, Jennison, 832 

In  an  Hour, Perry, 415 

In  Arabia, J.  B.  Bensel,  ....  38 

In  Autumn, Boker, 804 

In  a  Year R.  Browning,  ....  68 

In  Blossom  Time Cooibrith, 153 

Incompleteness, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  443 

Independence, Thomson, 594 

I  Never  Cast  a  Flower  away, C.  B.  Southey,     ...  515 

In  Extremis, J.  T.  Fields,    ....  226 

Influence, Coolidge, 814 

In  Garfield's  Danger Brackett 52 

Ingratitude, Shakespeare,  ....  484 

In  Kittery  Churchyard, Thaxter, 589 

In  Memory  of  Barry  Cornwall, Swinburne 552 

In  no  Haste, Zandor, 327 

In  November, R.  U.  Johnson,    .    .    .  834 

In  Praise  of  his  Lady  Love  Compared  with  all  Others,  .  Farl  of  Surrey,  .    .    .  551 

In  School  Days, J.  G.  Whittier,    .    .    .  &10 

Inscription, Byron, 9J 

Insignificant  Existence, Watts, 855 

In  Struggle, E.  B.  Broicning,      .    .  67 

Insufficiency  of  the  World, E.  Young, 680 

In  the  Dark, G.  Arnold, 23 

In  the  :vreadow8, B.  Taylor, 566 

In  the  Quiet  of  Nature, Cotton, 154 

In  View  of  Death, M.  Collins 144 

Invocation, Riordan, 850 

I  prithee  Send  me  back  my  Heart, Suckling, 550 

I  Remember,  I  Remember, Hood, 280 

Irwin  Russell, Bunner, 808 

I  Saw  from  the  Beach, Moore, 387 

Is  it  all  Vanity E.  B.  Lytton,  ....  838 

Isolation E.  Gray, 240 

I  Wandered  by  the  Brookside, Lord  Houghton,  .    .    .  287 

I  will  Abide  in  thine  House,       Whitney, 638 

I  will  not  Love •    Landor. 328 


J. 

Jasmine Hayne, 257 

Jeanie  Morrison, Motherwell,     ....  392 

Jerusalem  the  Golden,  ..,«.. Massey 367 


XX 


CONTENTS, 


Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul, Wesley, 632 

John  Anderson  my  Jo, Burns, 84 

John  Gilpin, Coioper, 711 

Jim  Bludso  of  the  Prairie  Belle, Hay,       731 

John  Day,       Hooa, 735 

Joy  to  be  Shared, E.  Young.  ,    .    .    •    .  978 

Judge  Notj A.  A.  Procter,     ...  440 

Judgment  m  Studying  it, Dryden, 205 

July, Jackson, 831 

fluue, o Bryant, 73 

rune, Lowell, 351 

Jufit  Judgment, Pope,      ......  432 

Justice, Richardson,    ....  459 

Justice  the  Regenerative  Power, E,  B.  Lytton, ....  839 


K. 

Keep  Faith  in  Love, .  Miller, 374 

Kilcoleman  Castle, Joyce, 834 

Kindness  first  Known  in  a  Hospital, E.  B.  Browning,      .    .  66 


L. 

Labor, Lord  Houghton, .    .    .  286 

Laborare  est  Orare, E.  S.  Osgood,      .    .    .  402 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, •    .    .     Tennyson, 583 

Lagrimas,  .    - Hay,       255 

Lake  George, Hillard, 269 

L'Allegro Milton, 375 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrims, Hemans 263 

Larvae, • Whitney, 638 

Last, Allen, 15 

Last  Lines, E.  lironte, 54 

Last  Verses, M.  Collins,      ....  144 

Last  Verses, Motherwell,    ....  391 

Last  Words, S.  M.  B.  Piatt,    ...  419 

Late  Summer, Hopkins, 829 

Late  Valuation, Tapper, 620 

Laughter  and  Death, Blunt, 803 

Laimch  thy  Bark,  Mariner, C.  B.  Southey,    .    .    .  514 

Laura,  my  Darling, Stedman, 535 

Learning  is  Labor, Crabbe, 164 

Left  Behind, .•    .    .    .    Moulton, 845 

Letters, Tupper, 615 

Life Barbauld, 28 

Life, Bryant, 76 

Life, A.  Cary, 119 

Life, .     Crabbe,       108 

Life, B.  W.  Procter,    ...  444 

Life, Tupper, 620 

Life  a  Victory, R.  li.  Lytton,  ....  841 

Life  from  Death, Holland, 273 

Life  in  Death, .    Savage, 472 

Life's  Mystery, A.  Cary, 122 

Life's  Mystery, Stotce, 544 

Life's  Tlleatre, Shakespeare,  ....  484 

Life's  Vicissitudes, Shakespear>,  ....  487 

Life  \^'ill  be  Gone  ere  I  have  Lived, C.Bronte. 54 

Light, Bourdillon,     ....  50 

Light  on  the  Cloud Savage, 473 

Light  Sliiiiing  out  of  Darkness, Cowper, 157 

Like  a  Laverock  in  the  Lift, Jean  Ingelow,      .    .    .  307 

Like  as  a  Nurse, Vaughan, 626 

Lines  on  a  Prayer-book Crashaw. 816 

Lines  to  a  Comic  Author, S.  T.  Coleridge, .    .    .  710 


CONTENTS, 


XXI 


Listening  for  God, Gannett, 228 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit, Herrick, 266 

Little  Billee. Thackeray 783 

Little  Breecnes Hay, 730 

Little  Gitten Ticknor 854 

Little  Jerry,  the  Miller Saxe, 474 

Little  Kindnesses, Talfourd 562 

Little  Martin  Craghan, Gusta/son, .....  245 

Little  Mattie E.  Ji.  Browning,     .    .  61 

Lone  Mountain  Cemetery, Bret  Harte,     ....  252 

Long  Ago, H.  H.  Brownell, ...  69 

Longfellow, Bunner 807 

Lord  Byron, Pollok, 428 

Lord,  Many  Times  I  am  Aweary, Trench 603 

Lord  Ullln's  Daughter, Campbell Ill 

Lord,  when  1  Quit  this  Earthly  Stage, Watts, 836 

Loss, M.  B.  Dodge, ....  817 

Losses, Brovm, 56 

Lost  Days, D.  G.  Rossetti,    ...  468 

Love, Botta, 50 

Love, S.  Butler,   .....  87 

Love, Byron, 97 

Love S.T.  (Jolendge, ...  141 

Love, Scott, 478 

Love, Tennyson, 579 

Love  Bettered  by  Time, Hood, 284 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience  in  Education, S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  140 

Love  in  Age, Tilton,    .."....  598 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly, AUingham,     ....  686 

Love  me  if  I  Live, B.  W.  Pi-octer,    ...  444 

Love  of  Country  and  of  Home, Montgomery 382 

Love  of  the  Country, Bloomfield,      ....  42 

Love  Reluctant  to  Endanger, H.  Taylor, 570 

Love's  ReAvard, Bourdlllon,     ....  50 

Love  shall  Save  us  all Thaxter, 588 

Love's  Immortality li.  Southey,     ....  517 

Love's  Jealousy, Gilder 233 

Love's  Sonnets, Baker, 46 

Love's  Philosophy, Shelley, 492  • 

Love,  the  Retriever  of  Past  Losses, Sliakespeare,  ....  489 

Love,  the  Solace  of  Present  Calamity, Shakespeare,  ....  488 

Love  Unalterable, Shakespeare,  ....  489 

Low  Spirits, Faber, 217 

Lucy, Wordswmrth 672 

Lyric  of  Action, Hayne, 827 


M. 

Madonna  Mia, O.  Wilde, 647 

Maiden  and  Weathercock, H.  W.  Longfellow, .    .  343 

Maid  of  Athens Byron, 94 

Major  and  Minor, Curtis, 181 

Make  thine  Angel  Glad C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

Making  Peace, S.  M.  B.  Piatt,    ...  420 

Man Pope, 430 

Man  and  "Woman, Tennyson 578 

Manhood, Simms, 503 

Man's  Dislike  to  be  Led, Crabbe, 165 

Man's  Restlessness, Rogers, 461 

Man  was  Made  to  Mourn, Bums, 85 

Maple  Leaves, T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  12 

March, Jackson, 831 

March, Morris 389 

Marco  Bozzaris, Halleck, 248 

Masks. T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  12 

Maudiluller, J.  G.  Whittier,    .    .    .  &13 

May, Cheney, 812 


xxii  CONTENTS. 


May, Mason, 844 

May  and  the  Poets, Hunt, 301 

May  in  Kingston, Abbey, 2 

May  to  April, Freneau, 228 

Measure  for  Measure, Spofford, 531 

Melancholy, Hood, 279 

Melrose  A  hbey  by  Moonlight, Scott, 478 

Memorial  Hall, Cranch, 174 

Memory, Goldsmith,      ....  237 

Memory, liogers, 463 

Mene,  Mene, Symonds, 658 

Mental  Beauty, Akenside, 7 

Mental  Supremacy, Tupper, 616 

Mercy ShaJcespeare,  ....  486 

Mercy  to  Animals, Cowper, 160 

Merit  beyond  Beauty, Pope, 768 

Middle  Life, Heddenvick,    ....  258 

Midnight, Brownell, 58 

Midsummer, Saxton, 852 

Midsummer, Trowbridge,    ....  609 

Midwinter, Trowbridge,    ....  608 

Mine  Own, Leland, 339 

Miracle, Coolidge, 814 

Misspent  time, A.  De  Vere,    ....  184 

Monterey, Hoffman, 270 

More  Poets  Yet, Dobsort-, 722 

Morning  and  Evening  by  the  Sea, J.  2\  Fields,  ....  225 

Move  Eastward,  Happy  Earth, Tennyson, 585 

Music  in  the  Air, Curtis, 181 

Music  when  Soft  Voices  Die, -.    .    .    .    Shelley, 492 

Mutability, Shelley 495 

My  Ain  Countree, Deviarest 183 

My  Answer, Boker 804 

My  Child Pierpont, 422 

My  Comrade  and  I,    , Trowbridge,    ....  613 

My  Heid  is  like  to  Kend,  Willie, Motherwell,     ....  391 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose, R.  H.  Wilde,  ....  649 

My  Little  Boy  that  Died, Craik, 172 

My  Love  is  on  her  Way, Baillie, 27 

My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is, Dyer, 819 

My  Nasturtiums, Jackson, 832 

My  Old  Straw  Hat, F.Cook, 150 


My  Own  Song, Spofford 531 

My  Playmate, J.  G.  Whittier,   ...  646 

My  Psalm, J.  G.  Whittier,    ...  641 

My  Saint, Moulton, 845 

My  Slain, Eealf, 457 

My  Window  Ivy, M,  M.  Dodge,     .     .    .  191 


Nameless  Pain, T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  10 

Names, S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  710 

Nantasket, Clemmer, 130 

Natura  Naturans, Clough, 132 

Nature, H.  W.  Longfellow,      .  342 

Nature. Very, 627 

Nature's  Joy  Inalienable, Thomson, 596 

Nature's  Lesson, Preston, 435 

Nature's  Need, Sir  H.  Taylor,    .    ,    .  bll 

Nature's  Question  and  Faith's  Answer, P.  Southey,     ....  515 

Nature's  Reverence, J.  G.  Whittier,    .    .    .  645 

Nearer  Home, P.  Cary, 123 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, , S.F.  Adams,  ....  3 

Nearing  the  Snow-line, Holmes, 278 

Nearness, Boker, 804 

New  Life,  New  Love, Symonds, 559 


CONTENTS.  xxiii 


New  Worlds, G.  P.  Lathrop,   ...  334 

Night,    .    .    .    .  "^ Lazarus 337 

Night, R.  Southey 516 

Night  Storm, Simms, 503 

No  Life  Vain, H.Coleridge 124 

No  More Clough, 131 

No  Ring, Cary, 122 

No  Spring  without  the  Beloved, Shakespeare,  ....  489 

Not  at  All,  or  All  in  All, Tennyson, 580 

Not  for  Naught, E.  Elliott, 212 

Nothing  but  Leaves,     . Akerman 8 

November, H.  Coleridge,  ....  134 

Now  and  Afterwards, Craik, 170 

Now  Lies  the  Earth, Tennyson, 578 

Number  One Hood 736 


O. 

Ode, Emerson, 213 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton T.  Gray, 244 

Ode  on  Art, Spragice. 532 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson, Iv.  Collins,     ....  148 

Ode  on  the  Poets, Keats, 311 

Ode  on  the  Spring, T.  Gray 233 

Ode  to  a  Mountain  Oak, Boker, 43 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Coin, Leyden, 339 

Ode  to  Disappointment. H.  K.  White,  ....  635 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale, Keats, 312 

Ode  to  Evening, W.  Collins,     ....  147 

Ode  to  Simplicity, W.  Collins,     ....  144 

Ode  to  the  Brave, W.  Collins 145 

Off  Labrador Collier, .-142 

Of  Myself, Cowley, 145 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night. Moore 386 

Oh  !  Watch  you  Well  by  Daylight, Lover, 347 

Oh!  Why  should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  proud?.    .    .    Knox, 322 

O  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill, Macdonald,    ....  359 

Old, Hoyt, 296 

Old  Age  and  Deatli, Waller,  .......  628 

Old  Familiar  Faces, Lamb, 325 

O  may  1  Join  the  Choir  Invisible, G.  Eliot, 209 

On  a  Child, Rogers 461 

Only  a  Curl, E.  B,  Browning, ...  65 

On  a  Girdle Waller, 628 

On  a  Sermon  against  Glory, Akenside, 4 

On  Completing  my  Thirty-Sixth  Year, Byron, 107 

On  Doves  and  Serpents, Quarles, 451 

One  by  One, A.  A.  Procter,     ...  440 

One  Presence  Wanting, Byron, 104 

One  Lesser  Joy, Coolidge, 813 

One  Word  is  too  often  Profaned, Shelley, 490 

On  his  Blindness, Milton, 379 

Only, Hageman, 247 

Only  Waiting, Mace, 360 

On  Man, Quarles, 451 

On  One  who  Died  in  May, C.  Cook, 812 

On  Reaching  Twenty-Three, Milton, 380 

On  Reading  Chapman's  Homer Keats, 314 

On  Resignation, Chatterton,     ....  810 

On  Sin, Quarles, 451 

On  the  Bluff,      .    .    • Haif 254 

On  the  Death  of  John  Rodman  Drake, Hcilleck. 251 

On  the  Headland, B.  Taylor, SW 

On  the  Hillside Svumnds 559 

On  the  Lake Webster 631 

On  the  Life  of  Man, Qiiarles, 451 

On  the  Reception  of  Wordsworth,  at  Oxford, ....    Talfourd, 662 


xxiv  CONTENTS. 


On  the  Picture  of  a  Child  Tired  of  Play, Willis 651 

OiitheRighi, Holland 275 

On  the  Road, Hutchinson,    ....  838 

On  the  Shortness  of  Life, Cowley 166 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey, Beaumont, 37 

On  Time, Milton. 374 

Od  Crue  and  False  Taste  in  Music W.  Collins,     ....  145 

other  Mothers, Butts, 89 

O  Thou  who  Dry'st  the  Mourner's  Tears, Moore, 386 

Our  Homestead, P.  Cary, 127 

Our  Neighbor, Spofford, 530 

Our  Own, Sangster, 468 

Ours, Preston, 434 

Out  of  the  Dark, Shurtleff. 852 

Out  of  the  Deeps  of  Heaven, Stoddard, 542 

Outre-mort, Jennison, 832 

O  ye  Tears, Mackay, 364 


Pain  and  Pleasure, Stoddard, 542 

Pairing-time  Anticipated, Cowper, 716 

Palmistry Spofford, 530 

Passage  from  the  Prelude, A.  Fields, 225 

Paternal  Love, Scott, 478 

Patience, Richardson,    ....  459 

Patience, Trench, 604 

Pat's  Criticism, C.  F.  Adams,  ....  685 

Payments  in  Store, Scott, 479 

Peace, Vaughan, 622 

Peace  and  Pain, O'Reilly. 399 

Penance  of  the  Ancient  Mariner, S.  T.  Coleridge, ...  135 

Peradventure, J.  C.  R.  Dorr,     .    .    .  194 

Perfect  Love, E.  B.  Browning^     .    .  64 

Persia, Mitchell, 370 

Pescadero  Pebbles, Savage, 472 

Philip  my  King, Craik, 171 

Philosophv Crabbe, 169 

Picture  of  Marian  Erie, E.  B.  Browning,      .    .  67 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James, Bret  Harte,     ....  729 

Pleasant  Prospect, Lazarus, 336 

Pleasure  Mixed  with  Pain, Wyatt, 677 

Plighted, Craik, 171 

Poor  Andrew, E.  Elliott, 211 

Power  of  Poesy, A.  T.  De  Vere,    ...  184 

Power  of  the  World, E.  Young, 683 

Prayer, Montqomery,  ....  383 

President  Garfield, H.  W.  Longfellmo, .    .  837 

Press  on, Benjamin, 799 

Procrastination, Tujyper, 621 

Procrastination  and  Forgetfulness  of  Death,    .    .    .    .    E.  Young, 677 

Progress  in  Denial Simms, 501 

Prometheus, Byron, 91 

Proposal, B.  Taylor, 565 

Prospice, .    .  R.  Browning, ....  68 

Providence Vaughan, 623 

Pure  and  Happy  Love, Thomson, 591 

Purity,       G.  Houghton,  ....  286 

Pursuit  and  Possession, T.  B.  Aldrich,    .    •    .  11 


Q. 


Quack Crabbe, 718 

Quakerdom Halpine, 726 

Quebec  at  Sunrise, Street, 545 


CONTENTS.  XXV 


Quebec  at  Sunset, Street^ 545 

Questionings, Hedge, 259 

Quince, Praed,    ......    771 


K. 

Railroad  Rhyme, Saxe, 779 

Rain, Burleigh 809 

Rattle  the  Window, Stoddard, 541 

Reading  the  Milestone, J.  J.  Piatt,      ....  418 

Real  Estate, Trov:>hridge,    ....  610 

Reason  an  aid  to  Revelation, Cou-ley, 156 

Rebecca's  Hymn, Scott, 479 

Recognition  of  a  Congenial  Spirit, Moore, 385 

Recompense, Annan, 797 

Recompense, Simms, 502 

Recompense, RWer, 851 

Recompense,.    . Tilton, 601 

Reconciliation,  .  ' Tennyson, 577 

Refuge  from  Doubt, Miller, 373 

Regret, G.  Houghton,  ....  285 

Relaxation, H.  Taylor, 571 

Remedial  Suffering, R.  Southey,     ....  516 

Remember, Lazarus, 338 

Remember, C.  G.  liossetti,    .    .    .  465 

Repose, Thomson, 595 

Remembrance, E.  Bronte, 54 

Remorse, Hay, 253 

Rencontre, T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  11 

Reporters, Crabbe, 717 

Requiescat O.  Wilde, 648 

Reverie, Thaxter, 587 

Resigning, Craik, 172 

Richard's  Theory  of  the  Mind, Prior, 774 

Riches  of  a  Man  of  Taste, Akenside, 6 

Ring  out.  Wild  Bells, Tennyson, 576 

Ripe  Grain, Goodale, 237 

Rock  me  to  Sleep, Allen, 15 

Rondel, Fay 222 

Rory  O'More, Lover, 746 

Rosaline, Lodge, 340 

Rose  Aylraer, Landor, 328 

Rubies, Landor, 327 

Rule.  Britannia Thomson 597 


s. 

Sabbath  Morning, Orahame, 239 

Sadness  Born  of  Beauty, Trench, 603 

Sailor's  Song, G.  P.  Lathrop,    ...  335 

Saint  Peray, T.  W.  Parsons,  ...  763 

Sands  of  Dee, Kingsley, 321 

Saturday  Afternoon, Willis, 651 

Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower, Norton, 396 

Schnitzerl's  Philosopede, Leland, 745 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet, Wordsworth,  ....  675 

Sea-way, Hutchinson,    ....  830 

Secrets, Wheeler, 633 

Seeking  the  Mayflower, Stedman, 538 

Self, Symonds, 560 

Self-dependence, M.  Arnold,      ....  25 

Selfishness  of  Introspection, E.  B.  Broioning,     .    .  66 

Serve  God  and  be  Cheerful, Newell 395 

She  and  He, E.  Arnold 20 

Shelling  Peas, Crunch, 719 


xxvi  CONTENTS, 


Sheridan's  Ride, Bead, 463 

She's  Gane  to  Dwell  in  Heaven, Cunningham, ....  180 

She  Walks  in  Beauty, Byron, 93 

She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight, Wordsworth 674 

Silent  Mothers •  .    .    .    Helen  Rich 849 

Silent  Songs Stoddard, 542 

Silhouettes, O.  Wilde 648 

Since  All  that  is  not  Heaven  must  Fade, Keble 16 

Since  Yesterday, Lord  Houghton,  ...  286 

Sir  Marmaduke's  Musings, Tilton, 601 

Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Pompeii, Landon, 327 

Sleep, T.B.  Aldrich,     ...  11 

Sleep, Byron, 97 

Sleep  and  Death, Fay, 222 

Sleep  the  Detractor  of  Beauty, Crabbe, 163 

Sly  Lawyers, Crabbe, 718 

Snatches  of  Mirth  in  a  Dark  Life, Baillie 27 

Soft,  BroAvn,  Smiling  Eyes, Cranch, 176 

Softly  Woo  away  her  Breath, B.  W.  Procter.    ...  446 

Solace  of  the  Woods, '.    .    Simms, 501 

Solitude. H.K.  White,  ....  634 

Somehody's  Darling, Lacoste, 323 

Somebody's  Mother, Brine, 806 

Somebody  Older, F.  Smith, 509 

Some  Day  of  Days, Perry, 416 

Sometime, M.  li.  Smith 513 

Somewhere, Saxe,      ......  474 

Song, Campbell, 115 

Song, »    Camjibell, 707 

Song, H.  Coleridge,  ....  134 

Song, C.G.  liossetti,     ...  465 

Song  from  "  Right," Havergal, 825 

Song  of  a  Fellow-worker,       O'SJiaughnessy,  ...  404 

Song  of  Egla, Brooks 55 

Song  of  Saratoga, Saxe, 776 

Song  of  the  Hempseed F.  Cook 149 

Song  of  the  Ugly  Maiden, E.  Cook, 151 

Song  on  May  Morning, Milton, 378 

Songs  of  Seven, Ingelow, 301 

Songs  Unsung Stoddard, 541 

Sonnet, O.  Wilde, 648 

Sonnet  Composed  on  Leaving  England Keats, 311 

Sonnets  from  "  Intellectual  Isolation," Symonds, 561 

Sonnet  on  Chillon Byron, 93 

Sonnets  to  Edgar  Allan  Poe, Whitman, 856 

Sonnet  to  Hope, Williams, 650 

Sonnet  to  Sleep Sidney, 499 

Sorrows  of  We rther, Thackeray,     ....  783 

Soul  of  my  Soul, Sargent, 469 

Soul  to  Soul, Tennyson 575 

Sound  Sleep C.G.  Rossetti,     ...  465 

Spectacles,  or  Helps  to  Read, Byron, 706 

Spent  and  Misspent, A.  Cary, 121 

Spiritual  Feelers Tupper, 615 

Squandered  Lives, B.  Taylor, 566 

Stanzas  from  "  Hymn  on  the  Nativity," Milton, 379 

Stanzas  from  "  Casa  Wappy," Afoir, 381 

Stanzas  from "  Service," .  J.T.Trowbridge,   .    .  612 

Stanzas  from  "  Song  of  the  Flowers," Hunt,  .......  299 

Stanzas  from  the  "  Tribute  to  a  Servant," Howe, 290 

Stanzas  from  "  The  True  Use  of  Music," Wesley, 632 

Stanzas  from  "  The  Schoolmistress," Shenstone, 496 

Stanzas  in  Prospect  of  Death, Bums, 83 

Stay,  Stay  at  Home,  my  Heart, H.  W.  Longfellow,.     .  342 

Still  Tenanted Hiram  Rich,   ....  849 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Grave, Preston, 435 

Storm  at  Appledore, Lowell, 352 

Strength  through  Resisted  Temptation, Holland 273 

Strive,  Wait,  and  Pray, A.  A.  Procter,     ...  444 


CONTENTS.  xxvii 


strong  Son  of  God, Tennyson, 574 

Submission  to  Supreme  Wisdom, Pope, 430 

Success  Alone  Seen, * Landon, 326 

Sufficient  unto  the  Day Sangster, 468 

Summer  Dawn  at  Locn  Katrine, Scott, 476 

Summer  Longings, AfcCarthy, 369 

Summer  Kain Bennett, 38 

Sum  up  at  Night, Herbert, 264 

Sundays, Vaughan 624 

SunligU  and  Starlight Whitney, 638 

Sun  ot  the  Sleepless, Byron, 92 

Sunrise. O.  Wilde, 648 

Sunset  in  Moscow, E.  B.  Proctor,    ...  449 

Sunshine, E.  Gray 823 

Sunshine  in  March, Gosse 821 

Sweet  Meeting  of  Desires, Patmore, 410 


T. 

Tam  O'Shanter, Bums, 695 

Tears,  Idle  Tears, Tennyson, 677 

Tell  me,  ye  Winged  Winds Mackay, 366 

Tempestuous  Deeps, Hopkins, 828 

Thanatopsis, Bryant, 74 

Thankfulness, A,  A.  Procter,     ...  440 

Thanksgiving, Howells, 292 

That  Kew  World, S.  M.  B.  Piatt,  ...  420 

The  Adieu, H.  H.  Broumell,.    .    .  58 

The  Aged  Oak  at  Oakley, Alford, 13 

The  American  Flag, Brake, 197 

The  Ancient  Mariner  Refreshed, S.T.  Coleridge, ...  135 

The  Angels  Kiss  her, A.  T.  De  Vere,   ...  189 

The  Angel's  Wing, Lover, 347 

The  Apollo,  and  Venus  of  Medici Thomson, 595 

The  Artist's  Dread  of  Blindness, Webster, 630 

The  Art  of  Book-keeping,  .    . Hood, 741 

The  Ascent  to  Fame, Beattie, 34 

The  Avoidance  of  Religious  Disputes, Dryden, 205 

The  Awful  Vacancy, Crabbe, 165 

The  Baby, Macdonald,    ....  369 

The  Ballad  of  Baby  Bell. T.  B.  AldHch,     ...  8 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse, Thackeray,     ....  782 

The  Banks  of  Anner, Joyce, 836 

The  Barefoot  Boy, J.  G,  Whittier,   ...  639 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim, B.  Southey,     ....  520 

The  Battle  of  the  Kegs, Hopkinson,     ....  742 

The  Bees, Trench, 605 

The  Belfry  Pigeon, Willis, 653 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball Praed 766 

The  Bells, Poe, 424 

The  Bible, Dryden 204 

The  Biblical  Knowledge  of  Hudibras, S.  Butler, 700 

Tlie  Bird  let  Loose, Moore,    ...*..  386 

The  Birth  of  St.  Patrick, Lover 746 

The  Blessed  Damozel, D.  G.  Rossetti,   ...  467 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray, Finch, 227 

The  Blue-bird's  Song, Street, 549 

The  Bower  of  Adam  and  Eve, Milton, 380 

The  Brave  at  Home, B.  Bead, 456 

The  Bride  Beautiful,  Body  and  Soul, E.  Spenser,     ....  524 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs, Hood,      ......  282 

The  Broom  Flower, Howitt, 294 

The  Burial  of  Moses Alexander,     ....  12 

The  Burial  of  the  Champion  of  his  Class, Willis, 652 

The  Busts  of  Goethe  and  Schiller W.  A.  ButUr,     ...  88 

The  Caliph's  Magnanimity Abbey, 1 

Tht  Canadian  Spring Street^ 54« 


xxviii  CONTENTS. 


The  Captious Cowper, 716 

The  Captive  Soul, ^    .    .    .    .  E.  Spenser,     ....  525 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore, Ji.  Southey,     ....  521 

The  Cavalier's  Song, Motherwell,    ....  392 

The  Chameleon, Merrick, 759 

The  Chess-board, JR.  B.  Lytton,      ...  840 

The  Child  and  the  Autumn  Leaf, Lover, 347 

The  Child  and  the  Mourners, Mackay, 361 

The  Child  and  the  Sea, M.  M.  Dodge,     ...  192 

The  Child  Musician, Bobson, 190 

The  Children Dickinson, 187 

The  Child's  Plea Palfrey, 847 

The  Charms  of  Nature, Beattie, 34 

The  Cigar, Hood, 738 

The  Clergyman  and  the  Peddler, F.  Bates, 687 

The  Close  of  Spring, C.  T.  Smith,   ....  507 

The  Closing  Scene, Bead, 454 

The  Cloud, Shelley, 492 

The  Col  de  Balm Havergal, 826 

The  Comet, Lunt, 838 

The  Common  Lot, Montgomery,  ....  383 

The  Condemned, Crabbe, 166 

The  Conqueror, Tupper, 616 

The  Conqueror's  Grave, Bryant, 79 

The  Coral  Grove Percival, 413 

The  Coral  Insect, Sigoumey, .....  500 

The  Courtin', Lowell, 749 

The  Covered  Bridge, Barker, 29 

The  Cricket C.  T.  Smith,    ....  507 

The  Crowded  Street, Bryant, 78 

The  Crowning  Disappointment, E.  Young, 679 

The  Cry  of  the  Human, E.B.  Browning,      .    .  65 

The  Cuckoo, Logan, 341 

The  Curtain  of  the  Dark, Larcom, 330 

The  Daffodils, Wordsicorth,  ....  671 

The  Dead  Bee, F.  Bates, 32 

The  Dead  Christ, Hoioe, 291 

The  Deaf  Dalesman, Wordsicorth,  ....  669 

The  Death-bed, Hood, 281 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year, Tennyson, 582 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous, Barbauld, 28 

The  Development  of  Poetic  Creations, Akenside, 5 

The  Diamond, Trench, 606 

The  Difference, Bourdillon,     ....  51 

The  Dignity  and  Patience  of  Genius, Tupper, 615 

The  Discoverer, Stedman, 538 

The  Dispute  of  the  Seven  Days Crunch, 721 

The  Distant  in  Nature  and  Experience, Campbell, 115 

The  Doorstep, Stedman, 537 

The  Double  Knock, Hood, 738 

The  Dragon-fly ,    .    .    .     Comioell, 815 

The  Ebb-tide, R.  Southey,     ....  522 

Tlie  Eggs  and  the  Horses Anon., 793 

The  Eloquent  Pastor  Dead, Blanchard,     .    .    .    ;  802 

The  Emphatic  Talker, Cowper, 715 

The  End  of  the  Virtuous, E.  Young, 680 

The  Ermine, Trench, 605 

The  Erratic  Genius, B.  B.  Lytton,  ....  752 

The  Evening  Cloud IVilson, 657 

The  Evening  Wind, Bryant, 76 

The  Faded  Violet, T.^B.  Aldrich,    ...  11 

The  Family  Man, Saxe, 779 

The  Family  Meeting, Sprague, 533 

The  Farewell, Donne, 818 

The  Fate  of  Poverty, Johnson, 309 

The  Father, .    .    B.  Taylor, 564 

The  Ferry  of  Galloway A.  Cary, 120 

The  First  Day  of  Death, Byron, 97 

The  First  Gray  Hair, T.H.  Bayly,  ....  33 


CONTENTS. 


XXIX 


The  First  Spring  Day, C.  G.  liossetti,    ...  465 

The  Flight  of  Youth, H.  Coleridge,  ....  133 

The  Flight  of  Youth Stoddard, 540 

The  Flower  o'  Duniblane, Tannahill, 563 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest, J.  Elliot 210 

The  Flowers  in  the  Ground, S.  M.  B.  Piatt,  ...  421 

The  Folly  of  Hoarding, Thomson, 596 

The  Force  of  Trifles Tupper 619 

The  Fountain  of  Youth, Butterworth,  ....  89 

The  Four  Seasons, Tilton 600 

The  Freedom  of  the  Good, Cowper, 158 

The  Free  Mind, Garrison, 229 

The  Fringed  Gentian, Bryant, 77 

The  Future  Life, Bryant 78 

The  Generosity  of  Nature, Lowell, 349 

ITieGift, Webster, 631 

The  Glory  of  Death, E.  ioung, 681 

The  Golden  Hand, J.J.  Piatt,      ....  418 

The  Golden  Silence, Winter, 661 

The  Gold  under  the  Roses, Ome, 846 

The  Good  Time  Coming, Mackay, 363 

The  Grasshopper  and  Cricket, Hxmt, 300 

The  Great  Critics, Mackay, 757 

The  Greenwood Botcles, 51 

The  Groomsman  to  his  Mistress, Parsons,     .    .    .    .    .  410 

The  Happiness  of  Passing  one's  Age  in  Familiar  Places,  Goldsmith,      ....  235 

The  Hare  and  Many  Friends Gay, 726 

The  Harvest  Call, Burleigh, 809 

The  Health, Stoddard, 542 

The  Heavenly  Canaan, Watts, 856 

The  Heliotrope, Mace. 361 

The  Heritage, Lowell, 348 

The  Highest  Good, Parker, 406 

The  Holly  Tree, P.  Southey,     ....  518 

The  Hope  of  the  Heterodox, Blackie, 800 

The  Horseman, W.  Young,     ....  858 

The  Horse  of  Adonis, Shakespeare,  ....  488 

The  Hour  of  Death, Hemans 261 

The  Housekeeper, Lamb, 325 

The  Human  Tie, M.  M.  Dodge,     ...  191 

The  Humble  Bee, Emerson, 214 

The  Husband  and  Wife's  Grave Dana 181 

The  Iconoclast R.  T.  Cooke,  .  ■  .    .    .  152 

The  Inner  Calm, Bonar, 48 

The  Invocation, Hemans, 261 

The  Isles  of  Greece,    .    • Byron, 98 

The  Ivy  Green, Dickens, 187 

The  Kingliest  Kings, Massey, 368 

The  Kitten, Baillie, 26 

The  Knight's  Steed, S.Butler, 700 

The  Laborer, Gallagher. 820 

The  Lack  of  Children, P.  Browning,      ...  71 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine, H.  W.  Longfellow,      .  341 

The  Ladv  Jaqueline, P.  Cary, 124 

The  Ladv  of  the  Castle, Bensel, 800 

The  Land  of  the  Leal, Naii-n 394 

The  Last  Appeal, Kimball, 320 

The  Last  Flowers, Whitman, &57 

The  Last  Man, Campbell, 109 

The  Last  Words, Jackson, 830 

Tlie  Learning  of  Hudibras, 5.  Butler, 699 

The  Lent  Jewels, Trench, 604 

The  Lesson  of  the  Bee, Botta, 50 

The  Lie, Raleigh, 452 

The  Lighthouse, S.  H.  Palfrey,    ...  847 

The  Light  in  the  Window, Mackay 364 

The  Light  of  Reason, Dryden, 2M 

The  Lily-pond G.  P.  Lathrop,  ...  334 

The  Little  Man, Mackay 758 


XXX  CONTENTS. 


The  Little  Shroud, Landon, 326 

The  Longing  of  Circe, Mann, 842 

The  Long  White  Seam, Ingelow, 307 

The  Lost  May, £.  Taylor, 567 

The  Love-letter, J.J.  Piatt,      ....  418 

The  Maid  of  Orleans  Girding  for  Battle B.  Southey,    ....  517 

The  Marriage  Knot Stoddard, 781 

The  Marriage  of  Despair, Brooks, 56 

The  Meeting, H.  W.  Longfellow,      .  342 

The  Means  to  Attain  Happy  Life, Earl  of  Surrey,  .    .    .  551 

The  Midges  Dance  aboon  the  Burn, Tannahill,     ....  563 

The  Misery  of  Excess, Byron,        100 

The  Mistake, , Stoddard, 780 

The  Model  Preacher, , Dryden, 207 

The  Modern  Puffing  System, Moore, 760 

The  Mood  of  Exaltation, A.  T.  De  Vere,   ...  186 

The  Morning  Hills, Thompson,      ....  853 

The  Mother's  Grief Coolbrith, 154 

The  Mother,  the  Nurse,  and  the  Fairy, Gay 726 

The  Mysteries, Howells, 292 

The  Mystery, B.  Taylor, 567 

The  Mystery  of  Life, Sir  H.  Taylor,    ...  570 

The  Mulberries, Howells, 292 

Then, B.  T.  Cooke,    ....  153 

The  Name  in  the  Bark, Troiobridge,   ....  607 

The  New  Year's  Baby, W.  Carleton, ....  709 

The  Nightingale, Trench, 605 

The  Nun  and  Harp, Spofford, 529 

The  Nuns'  Song, Tennyson, 581 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, Troiobridge,   ....  611 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts,  and  how  he  Gained  them,    .    .  B.  Southey,     ....  517 

The  Old  Man's  Motto, Saxe, 473 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket, Woodworth,    ....  666 

The  Old  Schoolhouse, Bogers,  ....*.  464 

The  Old  Sergeant, Willson 655 

The  Old  Story, Prescott, 433 

The  Old  Year  and  the  New, C.F.Bates,    ....  31 

The  One  Universal  Sympathy, ,    .    .    .    .  E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  67 

The  One  White  Hair, Landor, 743 

The  Only  Light, Wesley, 632 

The  Organist, K.  L.  Bates,    ....  32 

The  Other  Life  the  End  of  This, E.  Young, 681 

The  Other  World, Stowe, 544 

The  Paradise  of  Cabul, Michell, 371 

The  Parson, Chaucer, 810 

The  Parting Drayton, 198 

The  Passage  from  Birth  to  Age, Bogers, 462 

The  Passions, Collins, 145 

The  Past, Bryant, 73 

The  Pauper's  Deathbed C.  A.  B.  Southey,    .    .  514 

The  Pauper's  Funeral, B.  Southey,    ....  519 

The  Perils  of  Genius, Crabbe, 163 

The  Perpetuity  of  Song J.  T.  Fields,  ....  225 

The  Perversion  of  Great  Gifts, Bogers, 460 

The  Petrified  Fern, Branch, 53 

The  Picket  Guard, Beers, 35 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin, B.  Broioning,      .    .    .  690 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas, .  Wolcot, 792 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers, Pierpont, 422 

The  Pleasures  Arising  from  Vicissitude, Gray, 243 

The  Pleasure  of  being  Cheated, S.  Butler, 701 

The  Poet, Landon, 327 

The  Poet's  Friends Howells 292 

The  Poet's  Pen, F.  A.  Hillard,     ...  827 

The "  Poet's  Prayer," E.Elliott,      ....  212 

The  Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife,       B.  W.  Procter,  ...  445 

The  Poplar  Field,        Cowper, 157 

The  Ponte  di  Paradiso, Symonds, 560 

The  Post-boy, Causer, 161 


CONTENTS.  xxxi 


The  Power  of  Suggestion Tapper, 617 

The  Prairie, Hay 263 

The  Prayer  to  Mnemosyne,    , Symonds, 660 

The  Press, • E.  Elliott, 211 

The  Pressed  Gentian, • J.  G.  Whittier,    ...  646 

The  Press  of  Sorrow, Holland, 273 

The  Primrose  , Herrick, 266 

The  Prince, Hutchinson,    ....  830 

The  Problem, Emerson, 213 

The  Prodigals, Dobson 190 

The  Prophet's  Song, Goldsmith,      ....  237 

The  Prop  of  Faith, Wordsworth,  ....  668 

The  Pulley, Herbert 263 

The  Purple  of  the  Poet, F.  Smith, 508 

The  Pursuit, Faughan, 622 

The  Puzzled  Census-taker, Saxe. 776 

The  Quaker  Grave-yard, Mitchell, 844 

The  Question, Winter, 660 

TheKaven, A.  Poe, 425 

The  Razorseller Wolcot, 792 

The  Keaders  of  Dailies, Crabbe, 717 

There  is  Nothing  New  under  the  Sun, Gilder, 231 

The  Religious  Journal, Crabbe, 717 

There'll  Come  a  Day, Preston^ 436 

The  Restored  Pictures, Trowbridge,    ....  608 

The  Return  of  Kane, Brownell, 67 

The  Rhodora, Emerson, 214 

The  Ride  of  Collins  Graves O'Reilly, 399 

The  Right  must  Win Faber^ 216 

The  River  in  the  Mammoth  Cave, Prentice, 847 

The  River  of  Life Campbell, 114 

The  Rose, T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  12 

The  Rose, Waller, 628 

The  Rose  of  Jericho, Seaver 482 

The  Sabbath  of  the  Soul, Barbauld, 798 

The  Sailor's  Wife, Mickle, 372 

The  Sandpiper, Thaxter, 591 

The  Sea, B.  W.  Procter.   ...  444 

The  Sea-limits, D.G.  JRossetti,    ...  467 

The  Seasons Bennett, 37 

The  Seed  Growing  Secretly, Vaughan, 621 

The  Selfish, Rogers, 461 

The  September  Gale, Holmes, 733 

The  Shadow, Preston, 435 

The  Ship  Becalmed, S.  S.  Coleridge,  ...  135 

The  Shipwreck, Wilson,      657 

The  Shower. Vaughan 624 

The  Sight  of  Angels, J.J.  Piatt,      ....  418 

The  Silent  Lover, Raleigh 452 

The  Skylark, Hogg 271 

The  Sleep, E.  B.  Browning,      .    .  60 

The  Smack  in  School, Palmer, 762 

The  Snake, Trench, 605 

The  Solace  of  Nature, Wordsworth,  ....  666 

The  Soldanella, Clark, 128 

The  Song  of  the  Camp, B.  Taylor, 568 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt, Hood, 281 

The  Soul, Dana, 182 

The  Soul's  Farewell, Gould, 238 

The  Soul's  Progress  Checked, Cowper, 161 

The  Source  of  Man's  Ruling  Passion, Tupper 616 

The  Sower, Gilder, 231 

The  Speed  of  Happy  Hours, Spencer. 624 

The  Spider, Comwell, 815 

The  Spring-time  will  Return, Sargent, 470 

The  Squire's  Pew Taylor, 672 

The  Stanza  added  to  Waller's  "  Rose," H.  X.  White,  ....  636 

The  Stars, M.  M.  Dodge.     ...  192 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner, Key 318 


xxxii  CONTENTS, 


The  State  of  the  "World  had  Men  Lived  at  Ease,    .    .    .     Thomson, 59« 

The  Sting  of  Death,       Hayne, 257 

The  Stomach  of  Man, R.  B.  Lytton, ....  751 

The  Striving  of  Hope, R.  H.  Lathrop,    ...  837 

The  Sunflower Greemoell, 823 

The  Sunrise  never  Failed  us  yet, Thaxter, 587 

Tlie  Sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill, Scott 480 

The  Superfluous  Man, Saxe, 775 

The  Sweet  Neglect, Jonson, 310 

Tlie  Teacher, Crabbe 164 

The  Tears  of  Heaven, Tennyson, 585 

The  Tempest, Thomson, 591 

The  Terror  of  Death Keats, 310 

The  Test, , Siedman, 535 

The  Tliree  Fishers, Kingsley, 321 

The  Three  Lights, Whitney, 637 

The  Three  Warnings Thrale, 784 

The  Tides, Longfellow,    .    .    .    .  ai3 

The  Tiger Blake, 39 

The  Tiger, Trench, 605 

Tlie  Tongue, Coicper, 714 

The  Touchstone, Allingham,     ....  18 

The  True  Measure  of  Life, P.J.  Bailey,  ....  26 

The  Tryst, Stedman, 536 

The  Two  Angels, Longfellow,     ....  344 

The  Two  Birds, F.  Bates, 32 

The  Two  Brides, Stoddard 540 

The  Twofold  Power  of  All  Things, R.  Southey,     ....  516 

The  Two  Great  Cities Hageman, 247 

The  Two  Highwaymen, Blunt, 802 

The  Two  Kisses, R.  Broicning,       ...  70 

The  Two  Ladders, Tilton, 602 

The  Two  Streams, Holmes, 279 

The  Type  of  Struggling  Humanity, Holland, 275 

The  Tyranny  of  Mood, Preston, 436 

The  Uncertain  Man, Cowper, 714 

The  Undiscovered  Country Stedman, 536 

The  Unexpressed, Story, 543 

The  Unfulfilled, E.  B.  Lytton, ....  841 

The  Universal  Lot, Crabbe, 169 

The  Universal  Prayer, Pope, 433 

The  University  of  Gottingen, Canning, 708 

The  Vacillating  Purpose Crabbe, 163 

The  Vagabonds, Trowbridge,    ....  786 

The  Voiceless Holmes, 276 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass, Roberts, 459 

The  Voices  of  Angels, S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  135 

The  Village  Preacher, Goldsmith,      ....  235 

The  Village  Schoolmaster, Goldsmith,      ....  235 

The  Violet, Scott, 481 

The  Violet, Story, 543 

The  Way  a  Rumor  is  Spread ^ Byrom, 704 

The  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life,    .    .  * Parker, 406 

The  Wliite  Flag Winter, 658 

The  Will, Symonds, 559 

The  Winged  Worshippers, Sprague 532 

The  Winter's  Evening, Cmoper, 158 

The  Wise  Man  in  i:)arkness, Prior, 439 

The  Wise  Man  in  Light,     .    , Prior, 439 

The  Wit, Dryden, 207 

The  Woodland, Hayne, 256 

The  Wood-turtle, Fawcett, 221 

The  Word  of  Bane  and  Blessing, Tupper, 620 

The  World, Very 627 

The  World, Quarles, 450 

The  World  a  Grave,  .    • E.  Young 684 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us, Wordsioorth 675 

The  World's  Wanderers, Shelley,  ..'....  492 

The  Worth  of  Fame Baillie, 28 


CONTENTS,  xxxiii 


The  Worth  of  Iloure, Lord  Hmu/hton, ...  287 

They  are  all  gone, Vaughan] 521 

They  come  !  the  Merry  Summer  Months, MotherireU,    ....  394 

The  Yellow  of  the  Miser, F.  Smith, 508 

The  Young  Poet's  Visit  to  the  Hall, Crabbe 719 

The  Zeal  of  Persecution, T/iomson, 595 

This  Name  of  INIiue, G.  Houghton, ....  285 

Thou  art,  O  God Moore, 387 

Those  Evening  Bells Moore, 387 

Thought, Cranch 175 

Thou  hast  Sworn  by  thy  God, Cunningham 179 

Thou  Knowcst, J.  C.  li.  Dorr,     ...  195 

Three  Epitaphs, • Herrick, 266 

Three  Friends  of  Mine, Lone/fellow,    ....  344 

Three  Kisses, E.  K  Browning,     .    .  64 

Three  Kisses  of  Farewell Saxe  Holm,     ....  276 

Three  Sonnets  on  Prayer, Trench, 602 

Through  Love  to  Light, Gilder, 233 

Thy  Art  he  Nature, J    .    .    .  Wordsworth,  ....  674 

Tibbie  Inglis, Mary  Hoioitt,      ...  295 

Time, Shelley,  '. 492 

Time  its  Use  and  Misuse E.  Young, 678 

To  a  bavarian  Girl,  .    .    • B.  Taylor, 569 

To  a  Child  Embracing  his  Mother, Hood, 280 

To  a  City  Pigeon Willis 650 

To  a  Dead  Woman Bunner, 808 

To  a  Distant  Friend, Wordsworth,  ....  672 

To  a  Friend  afraid  of  Critics Mackay, 754 

To  a  Friend  in  Heaven, Tennyson, 576 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy, Bums, 83 

To  an  Early  Primrose, H.  K.  White,  ....  634 

To  an  Infant  Sleeping Holland, 274 

To  any  Poet, T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  12 

To  a  Sea-Bird Bret  Harte,     ....  252 

To  a  Skylark, Shelley 490 

To  a  Skylark, Wordsworth,  ....  673 

To  a  Violin, Thaxter, 588 

To  a  Virtuous  Young  Lady, Milton 380 

To  a  Young  Lady, Wordsworth,  ....  671 

To  a  Young  Lady, Campbell, 708 

To  Be,  or  Not  to  Be, Shakespeare,   .       .    .  484 

To  Celia, Jonson 509 

To  Critics, Crabbe, 168 

To-day, Carlyle, 118 

To-day S.  M.  B.  Piatt,    ...  419 

To-dav, Prescott, 434 

To  England, Boker 46 

To  Flush,  my  Dog, E.  B.  Broioning,     .    .  62 

To  Freedom, Barlow 29 

To  Giulia  Grisi, Willis 653 

To  his  Books, Vaughan, 620 

To  his  Empty  Purse, Chaxicer, 812 

To  his  Mother's  Spindle, Bloomfield,     ....  42 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent, Heirick, 267 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  beyond  the  Seas, Lovelace 346 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars, Lovelace, 346 

To  Man, Cowper, 162 

To  Mary Wolfe, 664 

To  Mary  in  Heaven, Bjims, 82 

To  Misfortune H.  K.  White,  ....  636 

To  Moscow, E.D.  Proctor,    ...  449 

To  Murmurers, Tupper, 619 

To  ray  Candle, Wolcot, 664 

To  my  Cigar, Sprague, 533 

To  my  Infant  Son, Hood, 734 

To  mv  Love, Saxe, 476 

To  my  Mother, Poe, 425 

To  my  Son. G.  P.  Lathrop,   ...  334 

To  my  Soul, Shakspeare,   .    .    .    .  48£ 


xxxiv  CONTENTS. 


To  Night B.  White, 634 

Too  Late, A.  A.  Procter,     ...  441 

Too  Late, Craik, 172 

Too  Late, Stedman, 537 

Too  Near. Marston, 843 

To  One  who  would  Make  a  Confession, Blunt, 802 

Too  Old  for  Kisses, Stoddard, 780 

To  Perilla, Herrick, 265 

To  Kouse,  the  Artist, Appleton 19 

To  Sappho, A.  Fields, 223 

To  Seneca  Lake, Percival, 413 

To  Sleep, Wordsworth, ....  672 

To  the  Cuckoo, Wordsworth, ....  676 

To  the  Fire, B.  Southey      ....  522 

To  the  Mocking  Bird, B.  H.  Wilde,  ....  649 

To  the  Rainbow, Campbell, 113 

To  Time, Boioles 51 

To  Triflers, ,    .  Buchanan,      ....  807 

To  Victoria, C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

To  William  Lloyd  Garrison, Appleton 19 

Trailing  Arbutus, B.  T.  Cooke 152 

Treasure  in  Heaven, Saxe, 476 

Tribute  to  Victoria, Campbell, 115 

Triumph, Simms, 504 

Tropical  Weather, Sargent, 471 

Trouble  to  Lend Kimball, 319 

True  Death, Hood, 284 

True  Nobility, Pope, 431 

True  Union, Bogers, 462 

Truth  to  Nature, Pope, 432 

Turn  to  the  Helper, Miller, 373 

Twilight, Wordsworth,  ....  672 

Twilight  at  Sea, Welby, 850 

TwoAjfrils, Gallagher, 820 

Two  Love  Quatrains, Gilder, 232 

Two  Maidens, , Webster, 631 

Two  Patrons, J.J.  Piatt,      ....  418 

Tying  her  Bonnet  under  her  Chin, Perry, 415 

u. 

Una  and  the  Lion, F.  Spenser,     ....  626 

Uncrowned  Kings, Aiken, 797 

Under  the  Leaves Laighton, 324 

Under  the  Lindens, Landor, 743 

Under  the  Portrait  of  John  Milton Dryden, 204 

Under  the  Sod, Tiltm, 599 

Under  the  Violets^ Holmes, 278 

Undeveloped  Genius, Wordsworth 668 

Unhappy  Childhood Simms, 503 

Union  of  Faith  and  Reason  Necessary, Crabbe, 169 

Universal  Salvation, J.  G.  Whittier,   .    .    .  645 

Unknown  Greatness, Sir  H.  Taylor,    ...  569 

Unrequiting^       p.  Smith, 509 

Unseen  Spirits, Willis, 653 

Unspoken  Words, .  O'Beilly, 401 

Unsung T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  10 

Until  Death, Allen, 16 

Unwedded, Larcom 330 

Up-hill c.  G.  Bossetti,    ...  464 

Urvasi, Bostwick, 49 


Valborg  Watching  Axel's  Departure, G.  Houghton, ....    284 

Verses  on  his  Own  Death, Swift, 781 


CONTENTS,  XXXV 


Victory  from  God, Spenser, 528 

Villanelle, Gosse, 821 

Virtue, Herbert 265 

Virtue,  The  Measure  of  Years,  ..........    j^.  Young, 683 

Virtue,  tlie  sole  Unfailing  Happiness, Pope, 431 

w. 

Waiting, Clemmer. 131 

Waiting  for  the  Ship Brovmell, 60 

Wandering  Willie Scott, 480 

Watchwords, Coxe, 816 

Waterloo, Byron, 106 

Weak  Consolation, Trench, 603 

Weal  and  Woe,      Gilder, 231 

We  are  Seven, I  •    •    •     Wordsworth 673 

Weariness, Longfellow,    ....  342 

We  Have  Been  Friends  Together, Norton, 398 

Weighing  the  Baby, Beers, 36 

We  Sat  by  the  Cheerless  Fireside, Stoddard, 542 

Westminster  Bridge, Wordsworth,  ....  675 

Wetmore  Cottage,  ^Nahant Story 543 

WTiat  Ails  this  Heart  o'  Mine, Blamire, 40 

What  Is  the  Little  One  Thinking  about  ? Holland, 272 

What  I  would  Be Tennyson, 579 

What  Makes  a  Hero? Sir  H.  Taylor,   ...  571 

WTiatNeed? J.  C.  R.  Dorr,     .    .    .  1^ 

What  She  Thought, J.  C.  R.  Dorr,     ...  193 

What  We  Toil  For, Drummond,    ....  198 

What  will  it  Matter? Holland, 275 

What  would  I  Save  Thee  from  ? Gilder 232 

■\Mien  Coldness  Wraps  this  Suffering  Clay, Byron, 92 

When  Joys  are  Keenest, Sir  H.  Taylor,    .    .    .  571 

When  the  Drum  of  Sickness  Beats, Stoddard, 541 

Where  is  Thy  Favored  Haunt  ? Kehle, 314 

Where  the  Roses  Grew, Allen, 15 

Whilst  Thee  I  Seek, Williams, 650 

White  Poppies, Barr 798 

WTiite  Underneath, R.  S.  Palfrey,    ...  405 

Whittling, Pierpont, 764 

WTiy Crunch, 176 

WTiy  don't  the  Men  Propose  ? T.H.Bayly 688 

Why  should  we  Faint  and  Fear  to  Live  Alone  ?     .    .    .    Kehle, 315 

"SMiy  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover? Suckling, 550 

Why  thus  Longing  ? Sewall, 483 

Widowed Boyle, 805 

Widow  Machree, Lover,     .......  747 

Widow  Malone, Lever, 745 

Wife  to  Husband, C.  G.  Rossetti,    ...  466 

Wind  and  Sea, B.  TayJLcyr, 565 

Windless  Rain, Hayne, 257 

Wintry  Weather, D.  Gray, 822 

Wisdom, E.  Young, 684 

Wisdom's  Prayer, Johnson, 308 

Wishes  for  Obscuritv, Crowne, 179 

Wishes  of  Youth Blanchard,     ....  801 

Wit Pope, 432 

Withered  Roses, Winter, 660 

Without  and  Within, Lowell 761 

Woodbines  in  October, C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree Morris, 388 

Words  for  Parting, Clement, 129 

Work  and  Worship, W.A.Butler,.    ...  87 

Worship Richardson,    ....  458 

Worth  and  Cost, Holland, 273 

Wouldn't  you  Like  to  Know,      Saxe, 475 

Would  Wisdom  for  Herself  be  Wooed, Patmore, 411 


xxxvi  CONTENTS. 


Wounds, Fawcett, 220 

Wrecked  in  the  Tempest, ,.    .    Falconer, 217 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley, '.    .    Shenstone 498 

Written  on  Sunday  Morning, .    ,  H.  Sauthey,    ....  519 


Yawcob  Strauss, Adams, 685 

Ye  Mariners  of  England, Campbell, 110 

Yield  not,  thou  Sad  One,  to  Sighs, Lover, 348 

Young  Sophocles  taking  the  Prize, J.  Fields, 223 

Youth  and  Age, S.  T.  Coleridge,      .     .  140 

Youth's  Agitations, M.  Arnold 24 


ESDEX  OF  AUTHOES  AIsTD  TITLES, 


ABBEY,  HENRY. 

b.  Kondout.  N  Y.,  July  11, 1842.  PAGE 

Faciebat 2 

May  in  Kingston 2 

The  Caliph's  Magnanimity    .    .       1 

ADAMS,  CHARLES  FOLLEN. 
b.  Dorchester,  Mass.,  April  21, 1842. 

Fritz  and  I 686 

Pat's  Criticism 685 

Yawcob  Strauss 685 

ADAlSrS,  SARAH  FLOWER. 

b.  Cambridge,  Eng.,  Feb.  22,  1805. 
d.  London,  Aug.  14, 1849. 

Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee  ...       3 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH. 

b.  Milston,  Wiltshire,  Eng.,  May  1,  W72. 
d.  London,  Eng.,  June  17, 1719. 

Apostrophe  to  Liberty  *    .    .    .       3 
Cato's  Soliloquy 4 

AJKEN,  BERKELEY. 

d.  1864. 

Uncrowned  Kings 797 

AKENSIDE,  MARK. 

b.  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  Nov.  9, 1721. 
d.  June  27, 1770. 

Aspirations  after  the  Infinite 
(Pleasures  of  the  Imagination) 

Mental  Beauty  {Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination) 7 

On  a  Sermon  against  Glory    .    .       4 

Riches  of  a  Man  of  Taste  (Pleas- 
ures of  the  Imagination)     .    .       6 

The  Development  of  Poetic 
Creation  (Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination) g 

AKERMAN,  LUCY  EA^ELINA. 

b.  Feb.  21.,  1816. 

d.  Providence,  R.  I.,  Feb.  21, 1874. 

Nothing  but  Leaves 8 

ALDRICH,  JAMES. 

b.  Orange  Co.,  N.  Y.,  July  ».  ISMX 
d.  New  York,  Oct..  185G. 

A  Death-bed 8 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY, 
b.  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  Nov.  11, 1836. 

After  the  Rain .      li 

An  Untimely  Thought  .    ,    .    .      10 


PAGI 

Destiny 10 

Maple  Leaves 12 

Masks 12 

Nameless  Pain 10 

Pursuit  and  Possession  ....  11 

Rencontre 11 

Sleep 11 

The  Ballad  of  Bal^  Bell    ...  8 

The  Faded  Violet 11 

The  Rose 12 

To  any  Poet 12 

Unsung 10 

ALEXANDER,  CECIL  FRANCES, 
b.  about  1830,  England. 

The  Burial  of  Moses     ....     12 
ALFORD,  HENRY, 
b.  London,  1810.    d.  ISH. 

The  Aged  Oak  at  Oakley.  ...     13 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS. 

b.  Strong.  Me..  Oct.  9,  1832. 

Lives  Greenville,  N.  J. 

Endurance 14 

Every  Day 17 

Last 15 

Rock  me  to  Sleep 15 

Until  Death 16 

Where  the  Roses  Grew  ....  15 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM. 

b.  Ballyshannon,  Ireland,  1828. 
d.  Nov.  1889. 

Autumnal  Sonnet 18 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly  ....    686 
The  Touchstone 18 

ALLSTON,  WASHINGTON. 

b.  in  Waccnmaco.  S.  C,  Nov.  5. 1779. 
d.  Cambridge,  Maas.,  July  9, 1873. 

Boyhood 19 

ANNAN,  ANNIE  R. 

b.  Mendon.  N.  Y.,  Sept.  23, 1847. 

Recompense 797 

ANONYMOUS. 

The  Eggs  and  the  Horses  ...    793 
Dr.  DroUhead's  Cure     ....    796 

APPLETON,  THOMAS  GOLD, 
b.  Boston,  March  3, 1812.    d.  1884. 

To  Rouse,  the  Artist      ....      19 
To  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  after 
the  war 19 


XXXVlll 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


AENOLD,  EDWIN. 

BATES,  CHARLOTTE  FISKE. 

b.  London,  Eng.,  1&32. 

b.  New  York,  Nov.  30,  1838. 

After  Death  in  Arabia   :    .    .    . 

21 

Florence  Nightingale     .... 
She  and  He 

22 
20 

Consecration      .    »    .    .    .    ^ 

31 

Make  thine  Angel  Glad      . 

31 

The  Old  Year  and  the  New 

31 

ARNOLD,  GEORGE. 

To  Victoria 

31 

b.  New  York,  June  24,  1S34. 

Woodbines  hi  October  .    . 

31 

d.  Strawberiy  Farms,  N.  J.,  Nov.  9,  1865. 

Cui  Bono   ......... 

23 

BATES,  FLETCHER. 

In  the  Dark 

23 

b.  New  York,  Nov.  19, 1831. 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW. 

The  Clergyman  and  the  Peddler 

687 

b.  Latchani,  Eng,,  Dec.  24, 1822.  d.April  15, 18. 

8. 

The  Dead  Bee 

32 

25 

The  Two  Birds 

32 

Austerity  of  Poetry 

Early  Death  and  Fame  .... 

25 

BATES,  KATHERINE  LEE. 

East  London 

Goethe  {Memorial  verses)  .     .    . 

24 
25 

b.  Falmouth,  Mass.,  Aug.  12, 1859. 

Immortttiity 

24 
25 

The  Organist      ...... 

3Z 

Self-dei  en  'ence 

Youtli's  Agitations 

24 

BAYLY,  THOMAS  HAYNES. 

AYTON,  SIR  ROBERT. 

b.  Bath,  England,  I7'.)7.    d.  1839. 

The  first  Gray  Hair    .... 

33 

b.  Scotland,  1570.    d.  1(>J8. 

Fair  and  Unworthy 

798 

Wliy  don't  the  Men  Propose  . 
BEATTIE,  JAMES. 

688 

BAILEY,  PHILIP  JAMES, 

b.  Kincardineshire,  Scotland,  Oct.  20, 1735. 

b.  Nottingham,  Eng.,  1816. 

d.  Aug.  18,  1803. 

The  True  Measure  of  Life     .    . 

26 

Beauties  of  Morning  {The  Min- 

strel) .    .    , 

34 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA. 

Death   and   Resurrection  (The 

b.  Lanarkshire,  Scotland,  in  17G2 

Minstrel) 

35 

d.  at  Hampstcad,  near  London,  Feb.  23.  ]&51 

The  Ascent  to  Fame  {The  Min- 

My Love  is  on  her  Way      .    .    . 
Snatches  of  Mirth  in  a  Dark  Life 

27 

strel)       ,    .    . 

34 

27 

The    Charms    of    Nature  {The 

The  Kitten 

2G 

Minstrel) 

34 

The  Worth  of  Fame 

26 

BEERS,  ETHELINDA  ELLIOTT. 

BALLANTINE,  JAMES. 

b,  lb27.    d.  1879. 

b.  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  1&08.    d.  1833. 

The  Picket  Guard      .... 

35 

Ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain 

Weighing  the  Baby    .... 

36 

drap  o'  dew 

28 

BEAUMONT,  FRANCIS. 

BARBAULD,  ANNA  LETITIA. 

b.  Leicestershire,  1586,    d.  March  9, 1016. 

b.  Leicestershire,  Eng.,  June  20, 1743. 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster 

d.  near  London,  March  9, 1825. 

Abbey 

37 

Life 

Thfe  Death  of  the  Virtuous    .    . 

28 
28 

BENJAMIN,  PARK. 

The  Sabbath  of  the  Soul  .    .    . 

798 

b.  Demerara,  Aug.  14, 1809 
d.  New  York,  Sept.  12,  1864. 

BARKER,  DAVID. 

Press  on 

779 

b.  Exeter,  Me.,  1816.    d.  1874. 

BENNETT,  WILLIAM  COX. 

The  Covered  Bridge 

29 

b.  Greenwich,  Eng.,  1820.    Lives  London. 

Summer  Rain    ...... 

38 

BARLOW,  JOEL. 

The  Seasons 

37 

b.  Reading,  Conn.,  March  24, 1755. 

d.  Zarnowicke,  Poland,  Dec.  22, 1812. 

BENSEL,  ANNIE  BERRY. 

To  Freedom 

29 

b.  New  York  City,  Sept.  30,  18J9. 

BARNARD,  LADY  ANNE. 

The  Lady  of  the  Castle     .    .    . 

800 

b.  Fifeshire,  Scotland,  Dec.  8, 1750. 

BENSEL,  JAMES  BERRY. 

d.  May  8.  1825. 

b.  New  York  Luy.  Aug.  2,1856.  d.  Feb. 2,  '60 

. 

Auld  Robin  Gray 

30 

In  Arabia  ........ 

38 

BARE,  MARY  A. 

BLACKIE,  JOHN  STUART. 

.  ,  b.  Glasgow,  Scotland. 

b.  Glasgow,  Scotland,  1809.    d.  1895. 

White  Poppies.      ...... 

798 

The  Hope  of  the  Heterodox  . 

800 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES, 


XX  XIX 


BLAKE,  \^^LLrAM. 

b.  London,  Nov.  28,  1757.    d.  Aug.  12, 1828. 
The  Tiger 39 

BLAMIRE,  SUSANNA. 

b.  Cumberland,  Eng.,  1744.    d.  1734. 

What  ails  this  Heart  o'  Mine    .     40 

BLANCHAUD,  LAMAN. 

b.  Great  Yarmouth  Eng  ,  May  15, 180a 
d.  Feb.  15.  im. 

Hidden  Joys 801 

The  Eloquent  Pastor  Dead    .    .    802 
Wishes  of  Youth 801 

BLOO^rFIELD,  ROBERT. 

b.  Honin^i^on.  Eng.,  Dec.  3, 176G. 
d.  Aug.  lU,  1823. 

A  Spring  Day  (TTie   Farmer^ s 

Boy) 40 

A  Tempest  ( The  Farmer's  Boy) .  40 

Gleaner's  Song 43 

Harvesting  ( The  Farmer's  Boy)  41 

Love  of  the  Country      ....  42 

To  his  Mother's  Spindle     ...  42 

BLUNT,  WILFRED  (?)  (Proteus). 

A  Day  in  Sussex 803 

Cold  Comfort 803 

Laughter  and  Death 803 

The  Two  Highwaymen  ....  802 
To  One  who  would  make  a  Con- 
fession      802 

BOKER,  GEORGE  HENRY. 

b.  Philadelphia,  1S24.    d.  Jan.  2,  1890. 
Awaking  of  the   Poetical    Fa- 
culty    45 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier 47 

In  Autumn  (Book  of  the  Dead).  804 

Love  Sonnets 46 

My  Answer  (Bool-  of  the  D<ad) .  804 

Nearness  ( The  Book  of  the  Dead)  804 

Ode  to  a  Mountain  Oak      ...  43 

To  England 46 

BOLTON,  SARAH  K. 
b. 

Entered  into  Rest 806 

BONAR,  HORATIUS. 

b  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  1808.    d.  July,  1889. 

A  Little  While 48 

The  Inner  Calm 48 

BOSTWICT\ ,  HELEN  LOUISE  BARRON, 
b.  Charlcstown.  N.  H.,  YS&. 

Urvasi 49 

BOTTA,  ANNE  CHARLOTTE  LYNCH, 
b.  Beunington,  Vt.,  1820.    d.  189L 

Love 50 

The  Lesson  of  the  Bee  ....     50 

BOURDILLON,  FRANCIS  W. 
b.  Woolbedding,  Eng.,  1852. 

Light 50 

Love's  Reward 50 

The  Diiference 51 


BOWLES,  WILLIAM  LISLE, 
b.  NorthamptonBhire,  Sept.  24, 1762. 
d.  April  7,  1850. 

The  Greenwood 51 

To  Time 51 

BOYLE,  A.  B. 

Widowed 805 

BRACKETT,  AN^A  0. 
b.  Boston.  1836. 

In  Garfield's  Danger .....     52 

BRADDOCK,  EMILY  A. 
d.  1879. 

An  Unthrif t 805 

BRADLEY,  IVLARY  E. 

b.  Easton,  Maryland,  Nov.  29, 1835. 

Beyond  Recall 52 

BRAINARD,  JOHN  G   C. 

b.  New  London,  Conn  ,  Oct.  21, 1796 
d.  New  London,  Conn  ,  Sept  26, 1828. 

Epithalamiuin 52 

BRANCH,  :MARY   BOLLES. 
b  Brooklyn,  N.  Y  ,  1841. 

The  Petrified  Fern 53 

BRINE,  MARY  D. 

Somebody's  Mother 806 

BRONTfi,  ANNE. 

b.  Yorkshire,  Eng  ,  1820.    d  May,  1849. 

If  this  be  All. 53 

BRONTfe,  CHARLOTTE. 

b.  Thornton,    Yorkshire,  E«g,  April  21. 
181«.  d  March  31,1855. 

Life  Anil   be  Gone  ere  I  Have 
Lived 54 

BRONTfe,  EMILY. 

b.  Yorkshire.  Eng.,  1818.    d.  Dec ,  1848. 

Last  Lines 54 

Remembrance 54 

BROOKS.  MARIA  GOWEN. 

b.  Bedford,  Mass.,  1?JS. 
d.  Cuba,  Nov    11,  184.i. 

Song  of  Egla  (From  Zophiet)      .      55 
The  Marriage  of  Despair  ...      56 

BROWN,  FRANCES. 

b.  Ireland,  June  IC,  1816.    d.  18&1 

Losses    .    .^ 56 

BROWNELL,  HENTIY  HOWARD, 
b.  Providence,  R.  I.,  Feb  6, 1820. 
d.  Oct  30, 1872 

All  Together 57 

Alone 58 

At  Sea 59i 

Long  Ago 69 

Midnight  — A  Lament  ....  48 

The  Adieu " .58 

The  Return  of  Kane  .....  57 


xl 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES. 


BROWNELL,  C.  D.  W. 

Waiting  for  the  Ship     ....  60 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 

b.  London,  Eng.,  1809. 
d.  Florence,  June  29, 1861. 

A     Character     {From    Aurora 

Leigh) 68 

A  Portrait 63 

Assurance  {Sonnets  from  the  Por- 
tuguese)    64 

Consolation  (Aurora  Leigh)  .  .  63 
•  Critics  {Aurora  Leigh)  ....  689 
Goodness  {Aurora  Leigh)  .  .  ,  688 
Humanity  {Aurora  Leigh)  .  .  689 
In  the  Struggle  {Aurora  Leigh)  .  67 
Kindness  First  ^^nown  in  a  Hos- 
pital {Aurora  Leigh) .    .      .    .  66 

Little  Mattie 61 

Only  a  Curl 65 

Perfect  Love  {Sonnets from  the 

Portuguese) 64 

Picture  of  Marian  Erie  {Aurora 

Leiah) 67 

Selfishness     of      Introspection 

{Aurora  Leigh) 66 

The  Cry  of  the  Human      ...  65 
The   One  Universal   Sympathy 

{Aurora  Leigh) 67 

The  Sleep 60 

Three  Kisses  {Sonnets  from  the 

Portuc/uese) 64 

To  Flush,  my  Dog 62 

BROWNING,  ROBERT. 

b.  Camberwell,  Eng.,  1812.  d.Venice,  Dec.  12, 1889. 

Dreams  ( Tlie  Ping  and  the  Book)  71 

Evelyn  Hope      . ' 69 

How  they  brought    the    good 

News  from  Ghent  to  Aix    .    .  70 

In  a  Year 68 

Prospice 68 

The  Lack  of  Children  {The  Ping 

and  the  Book) 71 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin  .    .  690 

The  Two  Kisses  {In  a  Gondola) .  70 

BRYANT,  TVT:LLIAM  CULLEN. 

b.  Cummington,  Mass.,  Nov.  3,  1794. 
<L  Kew  York,  June  12, 1878. 

An  Evening  Revery  {From  an 

unfinished  Poem)     .    =    .    .    .  80 

Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn     .  72 

June 73 

Life 76 

Thanatopsis 74 

The  Conqueror's  Grave     .    .     ,  79 

The  Crowded  Street 78 

The  Evening  Wind 76 

The  Fringed  Gentian     ....  77 

The  Future  Life 78 

The  Past 73 

BUCHANAN.  ROBERT. 

b.  Glasgow,  Scotland.  1841. 

.    Dying 807 

To  Triflers  {Faces  on  the  Wall) .  807 


BUNTSTER,  H.  C. 

A  Woman's  Way 808 

Irwin  Russell     ..    =    ....  808 

Longfellow 807 

To  a  Dead  Woman 808 

BURBIDGE,  THOMAS, 
b.  England,  1817. 

At  Divine  Disposal  .  .  •  .  .  808 
Eventide .809 

BURLEIGH,  WILLIAM  HENRY. 

b.  Woodstock,  Conn.,  Feb.  2, 1812. 
d.  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  March  18, 1871. 

Rain «    .     .    809 

The  Harvest  Call  ......    809 

BURNS,  ROBERT. 

b.  near  Ayr,  Scotland,  Jan.  25, 1759. 
d.  Dumfries,  Scotland,  July  21, 1796. 

Farewell  to  Nancy 84 

For  a'  that  and  a'  that  ....  82 

From  the  "  Lines  to  a  Louse  "  .  698 
God  the  only  just  Judge  {From 

To  the  Unco  Guid) 85 

Highland  Mary 85 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo  ...    .  84 

Man  was  Made  to  Mourn  ...  85 

Stanzas  in  Prospect  of  Death    .  83 

Tarn  O'  Shanter 695 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy     ....  83 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 82 

BUSHNELL,  LOUISA. 

Delay 86 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL. 

b.  Strenchani,  Worcestershire,  Eng  ,  1612. 
d.  Sept.  25, 1G8!). 

Love 87 

The  Biblical  Knowledge  of  Hu- 

dibras  {Hudibras) 700 

The  Knight's  Steed  {Hudibras) .  700 
The  Learning  of  Hudibras  {Hti- 

dibras) 699 

The  Pleasure  of  being  Cheated 

{Hudibras) 701 

BUTLER,  WILLIAINI  ALLEN, 
b.  Albany.  N.  Y.,  1825. 

From  "Nothing  to  Wear"    .    .    701 
The  Busts  of  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler  •    .    .    .    .      88 

Work  and  Worship   .    .    .    ,    .      87 

BUTTS,  MARY  F. 
b.  Hopkinton,  R.  I.,  1837. 

Other  Mothers 89 

BUTTERWORTH,  HEZEKIAH. 

b.  Warren,  R.  I.,  Dec  22, 1*39. 

The  Fountain  of  Youth     .         >      83 

BYROM,  JOHN. 

b.  near  Manchester,  Eng.,  1691. 
d.  Sept.  28, 1763. 

Careless  Content 705 

Spectacles  or  Helps  to  Read  .  706 
The  Way  a  Rumor  is  Spread     .    704 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES, 


xh 


BYRON,  LORD. 

b.  London,  Jan.  22, 1788. 

d.  Missolonglii,  Greece,  April  19, 1824. 

Apostrophe  to  Ada,  the  Poet's 

Daughter  {Childe  Harold)  .    .  105 
Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean  (Childe 

Harold) 100 

Byron's  Remarkable  Prophecy 

{Childe  Harold) 103 

Calm  and  Tempest  at  Night  on 

Lake  Leman  {Childe  Harold) .  101 

Critics  {English  Bards)      ...  706 

Epistle  to  Augusta 95 

Fare  Thee  Well 92 

Qenins  {Prop Jiecy  of  Dante)  .    .  99 

Greece  {Childe  Harold) .    ...  105 

Inscription 94 

Love  ( The  Giaour) 97 

Maid  of  Athens 94 

On  Completing  my  Thirty-sixth 

Year  {His  last  verses) ....  107 
One  Presence  Wanting  {Childe 

Harold) 104 

She  Walks  in  Beauty     ....  93 

Sleep  (T^e  Dream) 97 

Sonnet  on  Chillon 93 

Sun  of  the  Sleepless 92 

The  First   Day  of  Death  {The 

Giaour) 97 

The  Isles  of  Greece  {Don  Juan)  .  98 
The  Misery  of  Excess  {ChUde 

Harold) 100 

Waterloo  {Childe  Harold)  ...  106 
When  Coldness  Wraps  this  Suf- 
fering Clay     92 

CAMPBELL,  THOJklAS. 

b.  Glasgow,  Scotland,  July  27, 1777. 
d.  Boulogne,  France,  June  15, 1844. 

Against   Skeptical    Philosophy 

{Pleasures  of  Hope)     ....  117 
Apostrophe  to  Hope  {Pleasures 

of  Hope) 117 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 114 

Domestic  Happiness  {Pleasures 

of  Hope) 116 

Exile  of  Erin 112 

Field  Flowers Ill 

Hallowed  Ground  ....*.  108 

Hohenlinden 112 

Hope  in  Adversity  {Pleasures  of 

Hope) 116 

How  Delicious  is  the  Winning  .  110 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter  ....  Ill 

Song 115 

Song 707 

The  Distant  in  Nature  and  Ex- 
perience {Pleasures  of  Hope)  .  115 

The  Last  Man 109 

Tlie  River  of  Life  ......  114 

To  a  Young  Lady 708 

To  the  Rainbow 113 

'iribute  to  Victoria 115 

le  Mariners  of  England    ...  110 

CANNING,  GEORGE, 
b.  London,  Aprini,1770. 
d  Chiswick,  Au}i.  8,  1827. 

The  University  of  Gottingen     .    708 


CAREW,  THOMAS. 

b.  Devonshire,  Eng.,  1589.    d.  1639. 

Ask  Me  no  More 118 

Disdain  Returned 118 

CARLETON,  WILL. 

b.  Hudson,  Michigan, Oct.  21, 1845. 

The  New  Year's   Baby   {From 
Farm  Ballads) 709 

CARLYLE,  THOMAS. 

b.  Ecclefechan,   Dumfriesshire,  Scotland, 
Dec.  4,  17i)5     d.  Chelsea,  London,  1881. 

CuiBono? 119 

To-day 118 

CARY,  ALICE. 

b.  near  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  April  26, 1820. 
d.  New  York,  Feb.  12, 1871. 

A  Dream 121 

Counsel 121 

Life 119 

Life's  Mystery 122 

No  Ring 122 

Spent  and  Misspent 121 

The  Ferry  of  Gallaway     ...  120 

CARY,  PHCEBE. 

b.  near  Cincinnati,  Ohio.  Sept.  4, 1824. 
d.  Newport,  R.  I.,  July  31, 1871. 

Answered 127 

Archie 125 

Conclusions 126 

Dead  Love 123 

Nearer  Home 123 

Our  Homestead 127 

The  Lady  Jaqueline 124 

CHATTERTON,  THOMAS. 

b.  Bristol,  Eng.,  Nov.  20, 1752. 
d.  London,  Aug.  25,  1770. 

On  Resignation .  810 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY. 

b.  London,  1328  ?    d.  Oct.  25, 1400. 

Good  Counsel 811 

The  Parson 810 

To  his  Empty  Purse 812 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE. 

May 812 

CLARK,  LUELLA. 
b.  America. 

If  You  Love  Me 12e 

CLARK,  SARAH  D. 

The  Soldanella 128 

CLEMMER,  MARY  ANN. 

b.  Utica,  N.  Y.,  1839.     d.  Aug.  18, 1884. 

Nantasket 130 

W^aiting 131 

Words  for  Parting 128 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH. 

b.  Liverpool,  Jan.  1, 1819. 

d.  Florence,  Nov.  13, 1861. 

Becalmed  at  Eve 131 

Natura  Naturans 132 

No  More 131 


xiii 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY. 

b.  near  Bristol,  Eng.,  Sept.  19.  1796. 
d.  Ambleside,  Eng  ,  Jan.  19,  1849. 

Address  to  Certain  Grold-flshes  , 

No  Life  Vain 

Kovember 

Song. 

The  Flight  of  Youth     .... 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUTEL  TAYLOR. 
b.  Devonshire,  Eng.,  Oct.  21, 1772. 
d.  London,  July  25, 1834. 

Bell  and  Brook  {Three  Graves) . 

Broken  Friendships  (CTimfafie/) 

Complaint  and  Reproof      .    .    . 

Epigram 

From  an  Ode  to  the  Rain  .    .    . 

From  Dejection 

From  Lines  Composed  in  a  Con- 
cert-room     

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Val- 
ley of  Cliamouui 

Lines  to  a  Comic  Author   .    .    . 

Love 

Love,  Hope  and  Patience  in 
Education 

Names 

Penance  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 
{Ancient  Mariner) 

The  Ancient  Mariner  Refreshed 
by  Sleep  {Ancient  Mariner)     . 

The  Ship  Becalmed  {Ancient 
Mariner 

The  Voices  cf  the  Angels      .    . 

Youth  and  Age • 

COLLIER,  THOMAS  STEPHENS, 
b.  New  York,  1842. 

An  October  Picture  .    .    .    o    . 

Complete 

Off  Labrador 

COLLINS,  MORTEMER. 

b.  Plymouth,  Eng.,  1827.    d.  1876. 

In  view  of  Death 

Last  Verses 


COLLINS,  WILLIAM. 

b  Chichester,  Eng.,  Dec.  25,  1720. 
d.  Chichester,  Eng.,  1756 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson    . 

Ode  to  Evening 

Ode  to  Simplicity 

Ode  to  the  Brave 

On   True   and   False   Taste  in 

Music 

The  Passions 

COOK,  CLARENCE  CHATHAM. 

b.  Dorchester,  Mass.,  Sept.  8,  1828. 

On  one  who  Died  in  INIay   .    .    . 

COOK,  ELIZA. 

b.  London,  Eng.,  1817.  d.  Sept.  23, 1889. 
After  a  Mother's  Death  .  . 
Ganging  to  and  Ganging  frae 


My  Old  StraAV  Hat 
Song  of  the  Hempeeed  . 
Song  of  {he  Ugly  IMaiden 


134 
1^ 
133 
134 
133 


136 
136 
141 
711 
710 
136 

710 

138 
710 
141 

140 
710 

135 

135 

135 
135 
140 


143 
143 
142 


144 
144 


148 
147 
144 
145 

145 
145 


812 


150 
150 
150 
149 
151 


COOKE,  PHILIP  PENDLETON, 
b.  Martinsburg,  Va.,  Oct.  26, 1816. 
d.  Jan.  20,  1850. 

Florence  Vane 151 

COOKE,  ROSE  TERRY,  d.  July  18, 1892. 
b.  Uartford,  Conn.,  Feb.  17, 1827. 

The  Iconoclast .    152 

Then c    .    153 

Trailing  Arbutus  ....,•    162 

COOLBRITH,  INA  D. 

In  Blossom  Time  ......    153 

The  Mother's  Grief 154 

COOLIDGE,  SUSAN  (Sarah  Woolsey) 
b.  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

Influence 814 

Miracle 814 

One  Lesser  Joy 813 

CORNAATELL,  HENRY  S. 
b.  Charlestown,  N.  H.,  1831. 

The  Dragon-fly  .....         .815 

The  Spider 815 

COTTON,  CHARLES. 

b.  Staffordshire,  Eng.,  1630.    d.  1687. 

Coutentation 154 

In  the  Quiet  of  Nature  (From 
Retirement) 154 

COWLEY,  ABRAHAM. 

b.  London,  1618.    d.  Chertsey,  July  28, 1667. 
Distance  no  Barrier  to  the  Soul 

{Friendshity  in  Absence)  .    .    .    156 

Of  Myself 155 

On  the  Shortness  of  Life    .    .    .    156 
Reason  an   aid   to   Revelation 

{Reason) •    .    .    156 

COWPER,  WILLIAM. 

b.  Hertfordshire,  Eng.,  Nov.  26, 1731. 
d.  Norfolk,  Eng.,  April  2.5,  1800. 

A  Faithful  Picture  of  Ordinary 

Society  ( Conversation)    .    .    .  715 

Alexander  Selkirk 161 

Apostrophe  to  Popular  Applause 

{The  Task) 157 

Descanting  on  Illness  (Coraverso- 

tion) 715 

John  Gilpin 711 

Light  Shining  Out  of  Darkness.  157 

Mercy  to  Animals  (^TTie  J^as^•)    .  160 

Pairing-time  Anticipated  .    .    .  716 

The  Captious  {Co?irersation)  .    .  716 
The  Freedom  of  the  Good  {The 

Task) 158 

The  Emphatic  Talker  ( Conversa- 
tion)      715 

The  Poplar  Field 157 

The'Post-hoY  {The  Task)  .    .    .  161 
The   Soul's   Progress    Checked 

{Retirement) 161 

The  Tongne  {Conversation)    .    .  714 
The  Uncertain  Man  {Conversor 

turn)    .    c 614 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOnS  AND   TITLES, 


xliii 


The     Winter's   Evening    {The 

Task) 158 

To  Mary     .    - 162 

COXE,  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND, 
b.  Mendham,  N.  J.   May  10, 1818. 

Watchwords 816 

CRABBE,  GEORGE. 

b.  Aldborouxh,  Eug.,  Dec.  24, 1754. 
d.  Feb.  3, 1832. 

Advice  to  one  of  Simple  Life 

(The  Patron) •    .    718 

Against  Rash  Opinions  {Gentle- 
man Fanner) 165 

Apostrophe  to   the   Wliiuisical 

{The  Village) 165 

BooViS  {The  Libraru) 170 

Controversialists  ( The  Library) .    168 
External  Impressions    Depend- 
ent on  the  Soul's  Moods  {Lov- 
er's Jouniep) 167 

Folly  of  Litigation  {Gentleman 

Farmer) 164 

Friendship  in  Age  and  Sorrow 

{Parting  Hour) 168 

Learning' is  Labor  {Schools)  ..    .    164 

Life  {Parting  Hour) 168 

Man's  Dislike  to  be  Led  {Dumb 

Orators 165 

Philosophy  {Library)  ....  169 
Quacks  {From  Physic)  ....  718 
Reporters  (From  the  Newspaper)  717 
Sleep  the  Detractor  of  Beauty 

{Edward  Shore) 163 

Sly  Lawyers  {From  Laic)  .  .  .  718 
The  Awful  Vacancy  (!Z'/fe  Parish 

Jiegister) 165 

The  Condemned,  His  Dream  and 

its  Awakenijig  {Prisons)      .    .    166 
The  Perils  of  Genius  {Edward 

Sliare) 163 

The  Readei-s  of   Dailies  {From 

the  Newspaper) 717 

The  Teacher  (5c/w)oZs)  ....  164 
The  Religious  Journal  (From  the 

Newspaper) 717 

The  Universal  Lot  ( The  Library )  169 
The  Vacillating  Purpose    {Ed- 

VKird  Shore)         163 

Tlie  Young  Poet's  Visit  to  the 

Hall(7'/ie'/'a/ro?0  .    .    .    •    .    719 
To  Critics  ( The  lAbrary)    ...    168 
Union  of  Faith  and  Reason  Ne- 
cessary {The  Library)      ...    169 

CRAIK,  DINAH  MARLA  MULOCK. 
b.  Stoke-upon-Trent,  Eno;.,1826.  d.  Oct.  12,'87. 
Green  Things  Growing  ....    170 
My  Little  Boy  that  Died    ...    172 
Now  and  Afterwards     ....    170 

Pliilip  My  King 171 

Plighted 171 

Resigning 172 

Too  Late 172 

CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE. 

b.  Alexandria;  Va.,  March  8,  isir?. 
d.  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Jan.  19,  18D2. 

A  Thrush  in  a  Gilded  Cage    .    .    173 


Compensation 174 

I  in  Thee,  and  Thou  in  Mo     .    .  176 

Memorial  Hall 174 

Shelling  Peas 719 

Soft,  Brown,  Smiling  Eyes    .    .  176 

The  Dispute  of  the  Seven  Days  721 

Thought 175 

Why? 176 

CRASHAW    RICHARD. 

b.  Cambridgeshire,  Eng.    d.  Loreto,  Italy. 
Lines  on  a  Prayer  Book     ...    816 

CROLY,  GEORGE. 

b.  Dublin,  Aug.,  1780.    d.  Nov.  24, 1860. 

Cupid  Growing  Careful .  ...  178 
Evening 178 

CROT\TsE,  JOHN, 
b.  Nova  Scotia,    d.  1708. 

Wishes  for  Obscurity     ....    17? 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN. 

b.  Blackwood,  Scotland,  Dec.  7, 1785. 
d.  London,  Oct.  2y,  1842. 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea  180 
She's  Gane  to  Dwell  in  Heaven  180 
Thou  Hast  Sworn  by  thy  God    ■    179 

CURTIS,  GEORGE  WILLIAM. 

b.  Providence,  R.  I.,  Feb.  24, 1824. d.  Aug.  ?1,  IW. 
Egyptian  Serenade     .....    181 

Major  and  Minor 181 

Music  in  the  Air 181 

DANA,  RICHARD  HENTIY. 

b.  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Nov.  15, 1787. 

d.  Feb.  2, 1879. 

The  Husband  and  Wife's  Grave  181 
llieSoul 182 

DEMAREST,  MARY  LEE. 

My  Ain  Countree 183 

De  VERE,  SIR  AUBREY. 

b.  Limerick,  Ireland,  1783  ?    d.  1846. 

Columbus       o    184 

Misspent  Time 184 

De  VERE,  sir  AUBREY  THOMAS, 
b.  Limerick,  Ireland,  1814. 

Affliction   .    c 185 

All  Things  Sweet  when  Prized  .  08^ 

Beatitude 186 

Bending  Retweeu  Me  and  the 

Taper      . 185 

Happy  Are  They   .......  185 

Power  of  Poesy  {Poetic  Faculty)  184 

The  Angels  Kiss  Her         ...  185 

The  Mood  of  Exaltation       ,    .  186 

De  VERE,  MARY  AINGB. 

A  Leva  Song »   »    SHI 

DICKENS,  CHARLES. 

b.  Portsmouth,  Eng.,  Feb.  7, 1812. 
d.  Gad's  Ilill,  London,  June  9,  1870. 

The  Ivy  Greea  •••••».    187 


xliv' 


INDEX  OF  AUTEOUS  AND   TITLES. 


DICKINSON,  CHARLES  M. 

A\7\fe  {Eleonora) 

206 

b.  LowviUe,  N.  Y.,  1842. 

Beautiful  Death  {Eleonoro)    .     . 

206 

The  Children 

187 

Charity  (Eleomro) 

From     "The     Cock     and     the 

206 

DICKINSON,  MARY  LOWE. 

Fox" 

722 

If  we  had  but  a  Day 

188 

Judgment  in  Studying  the  Bible 

{lieligio  Laid) 

The  Avoidance  of  Religious  Dis- 

205 

DOBELL,  SYDNEY  THOMPSON. 

b.  Peckham,  Rye,  Eng.,  1824. 

putes  {Religio  Laid)  .... 

205 

d.  Aug.  22, 1874. 

The  Bible  {lieligio  Laid)    .    .    . 
The  Light  of   Reason   {Religio 

204 

America 

189 

Home,  Wounded 

189 

Laid) 

204 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN. 

The  Model  Preacher  {Character 
of  a  Good  Parson) 

207 

b.  England,  1840. 

The  Wit  {Absalom  and  Achito- 

Farewell,  Renown 

190 

phel) 

Under   the   Portrait   of    John 

207 

More  Poets  Yet 

722 

The  Child  Musician 

190 
190 

Milton    o 

'>04 

The  Prodigals 

du:nbar,  williajNI. 

DODGE,  MARY  MAPES. 

b.  Salton,  Scotland,  about  1460.  d.  about  1530. 

b.l838. 

Death  in  Life 

191 

All  Earthly  Joy  Returns  in  Pain 

208 

Heart  Oracles 

192 

DYER,  SIR  EDWARD. 

My  Window  Ivy 

191 

b.  about  1540. 

The  Child  and  the  Sea  .... 
The  Human  Tie 

192 
191 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is    . 

819 

The  Stars . 

192 

EASTMAN,  CHARLES  GAI^IAGE. 
b.  Fryeburg,  Me.,  June  1. 1816. 
d.  Burlington,  Vt.,  1861. 

DODGE,  MARY  B. 

Loss 

817 

A      O                     C1J. 

nno 

DONNE,  JOHN. 

ELIOT,  GEORGE  (]Maeia>^  Evans  Cross). 

b.  London,  1573.    d.  March  31, 1631. 

b.  Warwickshire,  Eng.,  1820.    d.  Dec.  2, 1880. 

The  Farewell 

818 

0  May  I  Join  the  Choir  Invisible 

209 

DORR,  HENRY  RIPLEY. 

ELLIOT,  JANE. 

b.  Rutland,  Vt.,  Oct.  27, 1858. 

b.  1727.    d.  1805. 

Door  and  Window      

818 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest    .    . 

210 

DORR,  JULIA  CAROLINE  RIPLEY. 

ELLIOTT,  EBENEZER. 

b.  Charleston,  S.  C,  1825. 

b.  near  Rotherham,  Yorkshire,  Eng.,  March 

At  Dawn 

196 

17,1781.    d.  Dec.  1,1849. 

At  the  Last 

193 

Not  for  Naught 

212 

Five • 

195 

Poor  Andrew 

',^11 

Peradventure     

194 

The  Poet's  Prayer 

212 

Thou  Knowest 

195 
194 

The  Press 

?11 

What  Need? 

What  She  Thought 

193 

EMERSON,  RALPH-  W^T,DO. 

b.  Boston,  Mass  ,  May  25, 1803. 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODIVIAN. 

d.  Concord,  Mass.,  April  27, 1882. 

b.  New  York,  Aug.  7, 17a5.    d.  Sept  21, 1820 

Concord  Fight 

215 

The  American  Flag   ..... 

197 

Forbearance      .    .    .    .    »    .    . 
Ode    ,    .    .    , 

215 
CIS 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL. 

The  Humble-Bee  .<,...    ^ 

?14 

b.  Warwicksliire,  Eng.,  1563.    d.  163L 

The  Problem     ,    o    ,    .    .    .    . 

213 

The  Parting  ,,....,. 

198 

TheRhodora      ..,.,.. 

214 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM. 

FABFR,  FREDERIC  WTTJJAM, 

b.  Hawthornden.  Scotland,  Nov.  IS.  158& 

b.  Durliam,  Eng..  June  28, 1814. 
d.  Bronipton,  Eng  ,  Sept  ?6. 1863. 

d.  Dec.  4, 1648. 

Despite  All    .        .         .... 

198 

Harsh  Judgments 

216 

What  We  ToU  For         .... 

198 

Low  Spirits    -..--.... 

217 

DRYDEN,  JOHN 

The  Right  Must  Win     .    ,    .    , 

216 

b.  Northamptonshire,  Enij.,  Aug  S:  1631. 

FALCx^NER,  WILLIAM 

b.  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  about  1^30. 

A  Charactei  {Absalom  and  Achi- 

d.  (lost  at  sea)  1769. 

tophet)     .    .    ,    , 

T22 

A  Sunset    Picture  (The  SiUv 

Alexander's  Feast     ..... 

199 

vn-eck)     .....        •    .    . 

m 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES, 


xlv 


Wrecked  in  the  Tempest  {The 

GAY,  WILLIAM  WHEELER. 

Shipwreck) 

217 

b.  Malone,  N.  Y.,  Jan.  16, 1854. 

FAWCETT,  EDGAK. 

Apollo  Belvedere       

820 

b.  New  York  City,  1847. 

Ideals 

219 

GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON. 

The  Wood-Tiirtle 

??1 

Wounds 

220 

And  Were  that  Best 

A  Thought 

233 

v;« 

FAY,  ANNA  MARIA. 

I  Count  my  Time  by  Times  that 
I  Meet  Thee 

b.  Savannah,  Ga.,  March  12, 1828. 

2.32 

Roundel 

?,n 

Love's  Jealousy 

233 

Sleep  and  Death 

222 

There  is  Nothing  New  under  the 

Sun 

The  Sower 

FENNER,  CORNELIUS  GEORGE. 

?S1 

b.  Providence,  R.  I.,  Dec.  50, 1822. 
(1.  Cincinnati,  O.,  Jan.  4, 1847. 

Through  Love  to  Light .    .    •    . 

Two  Love  Quatrains 

Weal  and  Woe 

233 

?32 

Gulf-Weed 

222 

231 

FIELDS.  ANNLE. 

What  Would  1  Save  Thee  From 

232 

Aged  Sophocles  Addressing  the 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER. 

Athenians  (Sophocles)     .    .    . 

224 

b.  Pallas,  County  of  Longford.  Ireland, 
Nov.  10, 1728.    d.  London,  April  4, 1774. 

At  the  Forge 

224 

Passage  from  the  Prelude      .    . 

To  Sappho     

Young   Sophocles    Taking   the 

225 
223 

Fra.nce  (The  Traveller)  .    .    .    . 

2.36 

Hope  ( The  Oratorio  of  the  Cap- 
tivity)       

Memory  (The   Oratorio  of   the 

237 

Prize  (Last  Contest  of  Aeschy- 
lus)      

?.?,^ 

FIELDS,  JAMES  THOMAS. 

The  Happmess  of  Passing  One's 

237 

b.  Portsmouth.  N.  H.,  Dee.  31, 1817. 

Age  in  Familiar  Places  (De- 

d Boston,  Mass.,  AprU24,  1881. 

serted  Village) 

235 

A  Character 

226 

The  Prophet's  Song  ( The  Orato- 

A Protest  

22R 

rio  of  the  Captivity)    .    .    ^    . 
The  Village  Preacher  (Deserted 

237 

Courtesy 

226 

First  Appearance  at  the  Odeon 

227 

Village) 

234 

In  Extremis 

226 

The  Village  Schoolmaster  (De- 

Morning and  Evening  by  the  Sea 

226 

serted  VUlage) 

235 

The  Perpetuity  of  Song     .    .    . 

225 

GOODALE,  DORA  READ. 

FINCH,  FRANCIS  MILES. 

b.  South  Egremont,  Mass.,  Oct  29,  I86& 

b.  Ithaca,  N.  Y..  1827. 

Ripe  Grain    .    .    • 

2,37 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray     .    .    . 

'm 

FRENEAU,  PHILIP. 

b.  New  York  City.  Jan.  2, 1752. 
d.  Monmouth,  N.  J.,  Dec.  18, 1832. 

GOODALE,  ELAINE. 

b.  South  Egremont,  Mass.,  Oct  9, 1863. 
Ashes  of  Roses 

237 

May  to  April 

228 

GOSSE,  EDMUND  W. 

GALLAGHER,  WILLIAM  D. 

b.  London,  1849. 

b.  Philadelphia,  Aug.,  180a 

Sunshine  in  March 

821 

The  Laborer 

Two  Aprils 

820 
820 

Villanelle 

«?1 

GOULD,  HANNAH  FLAGG. 

GANNETT,  WILLIAM  CHANNING 

b.  Lancaster,  Mass..  Sept.  3, 1789. 

b.  Boston,  Mass,  1840. 

d.  Newburyport,  Mass.,  Sept.  5, 1865. 

Listening  for  God 

228 

A  Name  in  the  Sand      .... 

238 

GARRISON,  WILLIAM  LLOYD. 

The  Soul's  Farewell  .-.•.. 

238 

b  Newburyport,Mas8.,  Dec.  12,1804. 
a.  New  York,  May  24, 1879. 

GRAHAME,  JAMES. 

b.  Glasgow,  Scotland,  1765,    d.  1811. 

The  Free  Mind 

229 

Sabbath  Morning  (The  Sabbath) 

239 

GASSAWAY,  FRANK  H. 

GRAY.  DAVID 

Bay  Billy 

229 

b.  England,  1838.    d.  England,  1861. 

GAY,  JOHN 

Die  Down,  O  Dismal  Day  .    .    . 

822 

b.  Devonshire,  Eng  ,  1688. 

If  it  Must  Be 

822 

d.  London,  Dec  4, 1732. 

Wintry  Weather 

822 

The  Hare  and  Many  Friends  .    . 
The  Mother,  the  Nurse,  and  the 

725 

GRAY,  ELINOR. 

Je'airj      ...    c    ....    . 

726 

Isolation    ..,••••.. 

yM 

xlvi 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


GRAY,  ELLIS  (Louisa  T.  Craigen). 
b.  Roxbury,  Mass.,  Oct.  5, 1&39. 

Sunshine 823 

GRAY,  THOMAS. 

b.  London,  Dec.  2G,  1716. 

d.  Cuinbridge,  Eng.,  July  24, 1771. 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard  240 
Ode   on  a  Distant  Prospect  of 

Eton 244 

Ode  on  tlie  Spring 243 

The     Pleasures     Arising    from 

Vicissitude 243 

GUSTAFSON,  ZADEL  BARNES, 
b.  Middletown,  Conn.,  March  9, 1841. 

Little  Martin  Craghan  ....    245 

GREENWELL,  DORA. 

b.  Greenwell  Ford,  Durham,  Dec.  6, 1822. 
d.  Clillou,  Eng.,  March  2<J,  1882.     . 

The  Sunflower 823 

HAGEMAN,  SAMUEL  MILLER, 
b.  Princeton,  N.  J.,  1848. 

Only  .    .    .    .    • 247 

The  Two  Great  Cities     ....    247 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE. 

b.  Guilford,  Conn.,  July  8,  1790. 
d.  Guiliord,  Conn.,  Nov.  19,  18G7. 

Burns 249 

Marco  Bozzaris 248 

Oil  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman 

Drake 251 

HALPINE,       CHARLES        GRAHAME 

(]Miles  O'Reilly) 
b.  Oldcastle,  Co.  Meath,  Ireland,  1829. 
d.  New  York  City,  Aug.  3, 1808. 

Quakerdom  — A  Formal  Call     .    726 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET, 
b.  Albany,  N.  Y.,  Aug.  25, 1839. 

Dow's  Flat 727 

Lone  Mountain  Cemetery  .  .  252 
Plain  Language  from  Truthful 

James 729 

To  a  Sea-bird 252 

HAVERGAL,  FRANCES  RIDLEY. 

b.  Astley  Rectory,  Eng,.  Dec.  14, 1836. 

d.  Caswell  Bay,  Swansea,  June  3,  1879. 

Autobiography 823 

From  "  Making  Poetry "    .     .    .    826 

Song  from  "  Right " 825 

The  Col  de  Balm 826 

HAY,  JOHN.  • 

b.  Salem,  Ind.,  Oct.  8, 1839. 

A  Woman's  Love 254 

In  a  Graveyard 253 

Jim  Bludso  of  the  Prairie  Belle  731 

Lagrimas 2.55 

Little  Breeches 730 

On  the  Bluff 258 

Remorse 253 

The  Prairie 253 


HAYNE,  PAUL  HAMILTON. 

b.  Charleston,  S.C,  Jan.  1, 1831.  d.  July  7,'86. 

A  Summer  Mood 255 

By  the  Autumn  Sea, 256 

Jasmine 257 

Lyric  of  Action 827 

The  Sting  of  Death 257 

The  Woodland 256 

Windless  Rain 257 

HEBER,  REGINALD. 

b.  Cheshire,  Eng.,  April  21, 1783. 
d.  India,  April  3,  182(j. 

If  Thou  Wert  by  my  Side  ...    258 

HEDDERAVICK,  JAMES, 
b.  Glasgow,  Scotland,  1814. 

Middle  Life 258 

HEDGE,  FREDERIC  HENRY. 

b.  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Dec.  12,  1805.    d.  1890. 
Questionings 259 

HEMANS,  FELICIA  DOROTHEA. 

b.  Liverpool.  Enj?.,  Sept.  25,  1794. 

d.  near  Dublin,  Ireland,  May  16,  1835. 

Breathings  of  Spring  ....  260 
Calm  on  the  Bosom  of  thy  God .  263 
Evening     Prayer   at    a    Girls' 

School 262 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrims    ...    263 

The  Hour  of  Death 261 

The  Invocation 261 

HERBERT,   GEORGE, 
b.  Wales,  April  3, 159-3. 
d.  Bemerton,  Wilts  Co.,  Eng.,  Feb.,  1633 

Advice   on    Church    Behavior 

{Church  Porch) 264 

Bosom  Sin 265 

From  "The  Elixir" 827 

Sum  up  at  Night  {Church  Porch)  264 

The  Pulley 263 

Virtue 265 

HERRICK,  ROBERT. 

b.  London,  Aug.  20, 1591.    d.  Devon,  1674. 
How     the     Heartsease      First 

Came, 266 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit  ...  266 

The  Primrose 266 

Throe  Epitaphs 266 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent     ....  267 

To  Perilla 265 

HERVEY,  THOMAS  KIBBLE, 
b.  Manchester,  Eng.,  1804.    d.  Feb.,  1859. 
Cleopatra   Embarking    on    the 

Cydnus 267 

Epitaph 263 

HEYWOOD,  THOMAS. 

b.  Lincolnshire,  Eng.,  1570.    d.  1649. 

Good-morrow     .......    268 

HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  WENTWORTH. 
b.  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Dec.  22, 1823. 

Decoration 269 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


xlvii 


HILL.  AARON. 

l«.  £nglaiid,  1085.    d.  1750. 

How  to  Deal  with  Common  Na- 
ture     825 

HILLARD,  F.  A. 

The  Poet's  Pen 827 

HILLARD,  GEORGE  STILLMAN. 
b.  Macluas,  y.c,  Sept.  22, 1808. 
d.  Jau.  21.  ISr'J. 
Lake  George 269 

HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO. 
b.  New  York,  1806.    d.  1884. 

IMoiitei-ey 270 

HOGG,  JAMES. 

b.  Ettiick,  Scotland,  Jan.  2r>,  1772. 
d.  .\ltrive.  Scutiaud,  Nov.  21, 1835. 

The  Skylark 271 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT. 

b.  Belelicrtown,  Mass.,  July  24,  1819. 
d.  Oct,  12, 1881. 

A  Song  of  Doubt  {Bitter  Sweet)  .    271 
A  Song  of  Faith        •'  "       .    272 

Cradle  Song  "  "       .    274 

Life  from  Death       "  "       .    273 

On  the  Righi 275 

Strength      Through      Resisted 

Temptation  {Bitter  Sweet)  ,  .  273 
The   Press   of    Sorrow    {Bitter 

Sioeet) 273 

The  Type  of  Struggling  Human- 
ity {Marble  I'ropheci/)     ...    275 
To   an  lufaut  Sleeping  {Bitter 

Sweet) 274 

What  is  the  Little  One  Thinking 

About?  {/iitter  Sweet)  ...  272 
What  will  it  Matter?  .  .  .275 
Worth  and  Cost  {Bitter  Sweet)  .    273 

hol:me,  saxe.  (?) 

Three  Kisses  of  Farewell ...    276 

HOLLIES,  OLIVER  WENDELL. 

b.  Cambridge,  Mass..  Aug.  29,  1809.  d.  1894. 
A   Familiar  Letter   to   several 

Correspondents 732 

Dorothy  Q.  —  A  Family  Portrait  277 

Hymn  of  Trust 279 

Nearing  the  Snow-liue  ....  278 

The  September  Gale      ....  733 

Tlae  Two  Streams  ......  279 

The  Voiceless 276 

Under  the  Violets 278 

HOOD,  THOMAS. 

b.  London,  May  23, 1799. 

d.  London,  May  3, 1845. 

Ballad 284 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray      ....  739 

Faithless  Sally  Brown  ....  740 

Farewell,  Life  ! 283 

I'm  not  a  Single  Man     ....  737 

I  Remember,  1  Remember     .    .  280 

John  Day 735 

Love  Bettered  by  Time     ...  284 


Melancholy 279 

Number  One 736 

The  Art  of  Book-keeping .    .    .  741 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 282 

The  Cigar 738 

The  Death-bed 281 

The  Double  Knock 738 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt   ....  281 
To  a  Child  Embracing  his  Mo- 
ther        •    ....  280 

To  my  Infant  Son 734 

True  Death 2&4 

HOPKINS,  LOUISA  PARSONS, 
b.  Newburyport,  April  19,  1834.    d.  1862. 

Autumn  {/'ersephrme)    .     .    .     •  829 

Early  Summer  {Persephone)  .    .  828 

December 828 

Hymn  from  '*  Motherhood"  .    .  829 

Late  Summer  {Persej)hone)    .    .  829 

Tempestuous  Deeps 828 

HOPKINSON,  FRANCIS. 

b.  Pliiladelphia,  1708.    d.  May  9, 1791. 

The  Battle  of  the  Kegs  .    ...  742 

HOUGHTON,  GEORGE. 

b.  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Aug.  12,  1850.    d.  1891. 

Ambition  {Allium  Leaves)  .    .    .  285 

Charity  "  "         ...  2m 

Coui'age         "  "        ...  285 

Daisy  "  "        ...  286 

Purity  "  ♦*         ...  286 

Regret  "  "         ...  2fc-5 

This    Name    of    Mine   {Album 

Leaves) 285 

Valborg   Watching  Axel's  De- 
parture {Legend  of  St.  Olafs 

Kirk) 284 

HOUGHTON,  LORD  (Richard  Monckton 

Milnes). 
b.  Yorkshire,  Eng.,  June  19, 1809.  d.  Aug.  11,85. 

All  Things  Once  are  Things  For- 
ever      289 

Divorced 288 

Forever  Unconfessed     ....  288 

I  Wandered  by  the  Brookside   .  287 

Labor 286 

Since  Yesterday 286 

The  Worth  of  Hours     ....  287 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD, 
b.  New  York,  May  27.  1819. 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic   .  289 
Imagined     Reply      of      Eloisa 

{Thoughts  in  Pere  La  Chaise) .  289 
Stanzas  from  the  "  Tribute  to  a 

Servant" 2fl0 

The  Dead  Christ 291 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN, 
b.  Martinsville,  Ohio,  March  1, 1837. 

Convention 292 

Tlianksgiving 292 

The  Mulberries 292 

The  Mysteries 292 

The  Poet's  Friends 232 


xlviii 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


HOWITT,  MARY. 

b.  Uttoxetcr,  Enp;,  1804.    d.  Feb.  2, 1888. 

Tlie  Broom-Flower 294 

Tibbie  Inglis 295 

HOWITT,  WILLIAM. 

b.  Derbyshire,  Eng.,  1795.    d.  March  2, 18"9. 
Departure  of  the  Swallow     .    .    296 

HOYT,  RALPH. 

b.  New  York,  1808,    d.  187& 

Old 296 

HUNT,  LEIGH. 

b.  Southgate,  Eng.,  Oct.  19, 1784. 
d.  Putney,  Aug.  28, 1859. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 299 

Death 301 

May  and  the  Poets 301 

Stanzas     from     Song     of    the 

Flowers 299 

The  Grasshopper  and  Cricket    .  300 

HUTCHINSON,  ELLEN  MACKAY. 

Autumn  Song 830 

On  the  Road 830 

Sea-Avay 830 

The  Prince 830 

INGELOW,  JEAN. 

b.  Ipswich,  Eng.,  18.30. 

Like  a  Laverock  in  the  Lift  .    .    307 

Songs  of  Seven 301 

The  Long  White  Seam  ....    307 

JACKSON,  HELEN  (H.  H.) 

b.  Amlierst,  Mass.,  1831-    d.  Aug.  8,  1885. 

July 831 

March 831 

My  Nasturtiums  {The  Century)  .    832 
The  Last  Words       "  "        .830 

JENNISON,  LUCIA  W.  (Owen  Innsley). 
b.  Newton,  Mass.,  1850. 

At  Sea 833 

Dependence 833 

Her  Roses 832 

In  a  Letter 832 

Outre-mort 832 

JOHNSON,  ROBERT  UNDERWOOD, 
b.  Washington,  D.  C,  Jan.  12, 1S53. 

In  November  (From  The  Century)  834 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL. 

b.  Lichfield,  Eng..  Sept.  18, 1709. 
d.  London,  Dec.  13, 1784. 

Charles  XII.  (  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes) 308 

Enviable  AgQ  {Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes) .    .    • 308 

The  Fate  of  Poverty  (London)  .    309 

Wisdom's  Prayer  {Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes) 308 

JONSON,  BEN. 

b.  Westminstsr,  London,  June  11, 1674. 

d.  Aug.  16, 1637. 

Epitaph 310 


Good  Life.  Long  Life     .    .    .    •    310 

Hymn  to  Cynthia 310 

The  Sweet  Neglect 310 

ToCelia .309 

JOYCE,  ROBERT  DWYER.  d.  1883. 

Kilcoleman  Castle 834 

The  Banks  of  Anner     ....    835 

KAY,  CHARLES  DE. 

Fingers 836 

KEATS,  JOHN. 

b.  London,  1795.    d.  Rome,  Feb.  24, 1821. 
Beauty's    Immortality    {Endy- 

mion) 312 

Fancy 311 

Ode  on  the  Poets 311 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale  ....  312 
On  Reading  Chapman's  Homer  .  314 
Sonnet   Composed   on  Leaving 

England 311 

The  Terror  of  Death     ....    310 

KEBLE,  JOHN. 

b.  Fairford,  Gloucestershire,  Eng.,  April  25. 
1792.    d.  Bournemouth,  Eng.,  March  29, 1866. 

Since   all    that  is  not  Heaven 

must  Fade 316 

Where  is  thy  Favored  Haunt  ?  .    314 
Why  Should  we  Faint,  and  Fear 
to  Live  Alone? 315 

ICEMBLE,  FRANCES  ANNE. 
b.  London,  1811.    d.  Jan.  16,  1893. 

Absence 317 

Faith 318 

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT. 

b.  Frederick  Co.,  Md.,  Aug.  1, 1779. 
d.  Baltimore,  Jan.  11, 1843. 
The  Star-Spangled  Banner     .    .    318 

KIMBALL,  HARRIET  McEWEN. 
b.  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  1834. 

Day  Dreaming 320 

Good  News 319 

Heliotrope 319 

The  Last  Appeal 320 

Trouble  to  Lend 319 

KING,  HENRY. 

b.  England.  1591.    d.  16(59. 

From     the     "Exequy   on    hib 
Wife" 836 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES. 

b.  Holne,  Devonshire.  Eng.,  June  12, 1819. 

d.  Eversley,  Jan.  24, 1875. 

A  Farewell 321 

Dolcino  to  Margaret 321 

Sands  of  Dee 321 

The  Three  Fishers 321 

KNOX,  WILLIAM. 

b.  Roxburghe,  Scotland.  1789.    d.  1825. 
Oh  !  whv  Should  the  Spirit  of 
Mortal  be  Proud 322 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLE 3. 


xli: 


lacoste,  marie  r. 

^  b  Savannah,  Ga.,  1842. 

Somebody's  Darling 323 

LAIGHTON,  ALBERT. 

b  Portsmouth,  N.  H.  1829.    d.  Feb.  6, 1886. 

By  the  Dead 324 

Under  the  Leaves 324 

LAMB,  CHARLES. 

b  London,  Feb.  1»,  1775. 

d  Edmonton,  Eng.,  Dec.  27, 1834. 

Hester 325 

Old  Familiar  Faces 325 

The  Housekeeper 326 

LANDON,  LiETlTIA  ELIZABETH, 
b.  Chelsoa,  Eng.,  1802. 
d.  Africa,  Oct.  id,  1&38. 

Success  Alone  Seen 326 

The  Little  Shroud 326 

Sir  Walter  Scott  at  Pompeii  .    .  327 

The  Poet 327 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE. 

b  Ipsley  Court,  Warwickshire,  Eng.,  Jan. 
SO,  1(75.    d.  Florence,  Sept.  17, 1854. 

A  Request 328 

Death  of  the  Day 328 

In  No  Haste 327 

I  Will  Not  Love 328 

Rose  Aylmer 328 

Rubies 327 

The  One  White  Hair      ....  743 

Under  the  Lindens 743 

LANIER,  SIDNEY. 

b.  Macon,  Ga.,  1842.    d.  1881. 

Betrayal 329 

Evening  Song 328 

From  the  Flats% 328 

LARCOM,  LUCY. 

b.  Beverly  Farms,  Mass.,  1826.    d.  Apr.  18,  1893. 

A  Strip  of  Blue 332 

Hand  in  Hand  with  Angels    .    .  332 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes      ...  329 
Heaven  near  the  Virtuous  {From 

Hints) 333 

The  Curtain  of  the  Dark  {From 

Hints) 330 

Unwedded 330 

LATHROP,  GEORGE  PARSONS. 

b.  Honolulu,  Hawaiian  Islands,  Aug.  25,  1851. 

A  Face  in  the  Street      ....  336 

New  Worlds 334 

Sailor's  Song 335 

The  Lily  Pond 334 

To  My  Son .  334 

LATHROP,  ROSE  HAWTHORNE. 
The  Striving  of  Hope  (Closing 
Chords) 837 

LAZARUS,  EMMA. 

b.  New  York,  July  22, 1849.    d.  Nov.  19, 1887. 
A  March  Violet 337 


Night  (Scenes  in  the  Wood)    .    .  337 
Pleasant  Prospect  (Scenes  in  the 

Wood) 336 

Remember *  338 

LELAND,  CHARLES  GODFREY, 
b.  Philadelphia,  Aug.  15, 1824. 

City     Experiences    {Breitmann 

About  Toton) 744 

Mine  Own 339 

Schnitzerl's  Philosopede  .     ,    .    745 

LEVER,  CHARLES  JAMES. 

b.  Dublin,  Ireland,  Aug.  31, 18U6. 
d.  Trieste,  June  1,  1872. 

W^idow  Malone 745 

I.£YDEN,  JOHN. 

b.  Denholm.  Scotland,  Sept.  8, 1775. 
d.  Batavia,  E.  I.,  Aug.  21,  1811. 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Coin   ....    339 

LODGE,  THOMAS. 

b.  Lincolnshire,  Enjr.,  1556. 
d.  London,  Sept.,  1625. 

Rosaline 340 

LOGAN,  JOHN. 

b.  Fala,  near  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  1748. 
d.  London,  Dec.  28, 1788. 

The  Cuckoo 341 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W. 

b.  Portland,  Me.,  Feb.  27, 1807. 

d.  Cambridge,  Mass.,  March  24, 1882. 

A  Day  of  Sunshine 345 

Maiden  and  Weathercock     .    .  343 

Nature »43 

President  Garfield 837 

Stay,  Stay  at  Home,  my  Heart, 

and  Rest 342 

The  Meeting 342 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine    .  341 

The  Tides 343 

Three  Friends  of  Mine  .    ...  314 

The  Two  Angels 344 

Weariness 342 

LONGFELLOW,  SAMUEL. 

b.  Portland.  Me.,  June  18,  1819.    d.  Oct.  3,  1892. 
From  Mire  to  Blossom  ....    346 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD. 

b.  Woolwich,  Eng.,  1618.    d.  Ix)ndon,  1658. 
To   Lucasta,  on  Going  beyond 

the  Seas 316 

To   Lucasta,    on  Going  to  the 
Wars 346 

LOVER,  SAMUEL. 

b.  Dublin,  Ireland,  1797.    d.  July  6, 1868. 

Fatherland  and  Mother  Tongue  748 

Father  Molloy 748 

Oh !  Watch  You  Well  by  Day- 

Ught 347 

RoryO'More 746 

The  Angel's  Wing 347 

The  Birth  of  St.  Patrick  ...  746 

The  Child  and  the  Autumn  Leaf  347 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES, 


Widow  Machree 747 

Yield   Not,  Thou  Sad  One,  to 

Siglis 348 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 

b  Cambridge,  yasB.,  Feb.  £2, 1819.   d.  1891. 

After  the  Burial 350 

Auf  Wiedersehen 351 

June  {Under  the  Willows)     .    .  351 

Storm  at  Appledore 352 

The  Courtin'  {Biglow  Papers)    .  748 
The     Generosity     of     Nature 

( Vision  of  Sir  Launfal)  .    ,    .  349 

The  Heritage 348 

Without  and  Within      ....  761 

UJ^T,  GEORGE. 

b.  Nowburyport,  Mass.,  Dec.  31, 1803.  d.  1885. 
The  Comet 838 

LYTE,  HENRY  FRANCIS. 

b.  Ednam,  Scotland,  1793.    d.  1847. 

Abide  With  Me 353 

LYTLE,  WILLIAM  HAINES. 

b.  Cincinnati,  Nov.  2, 1826. 

Killed  battle  Chickaniauga,  Sept.  20, 1863. 

Antony  to  Cleopatra      ....  353 
LYTTOX,  LORD  (Edward  Bulwer). 
b.  EiiglatKl,  1803.    d.  1873. 

Caradoc,  the  Bard,  to  the  Cym- 

riaus  {Klnff  Arthur)   ....  839 

Is  it  all  Vanity 838 

JiisMce,  the  Regenerative  Power 

{Richelieu) .839 

LYTTON,     ROBERT    BULWER    (Owen 
:Meredith). 
b.  Herts,  Eng.,  Nov.  8, 1831.    d.  Paris,  1891. 

A  Character  ((Lucile)     ....  753 

Changes 840 

Fame                {Lucile)    ....  753 

Few  in  Many        "          ....  752 

Life  a  Victory      *'          ....  841 

The  Chess-board 840 

The  Erratic  Genius  {Lucile)  .    .  752 

The  Stomach  of  Man    "         .    .  751 

The  Unfulfilled             "         .    .  841 

MACAULAY,   THOMAS  BABINGTON. 

b.  Leicestershire,  Eng.,  Oct.  25, 1800. 
d.  London,  Dec.  28, 1859. 

From  "  The  Lay  of  Horatius  "  .    354 

MACDONALD,   GEORGE, 
b.  Huntley,  Scotland,  1823. 

O  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill ....    359 
The  Baby 359 

MACE,  FRANCES  LAUGHTON. 
b.  Orono,  Me.,  Jan.  15, 1836. 

Easter  Morning 360 

Only  Waiting 360 

The  Heliotrope 361 

MACKAl,  CHARLES. 

b.  Perth,  Scotland,  1812.    d.  Dec.  1889. 

A  Question  Answered    ....    365 


At  a  Club  Dinner 75€ 

Be  Quiet,  do 757 

Clear  the  Way  ! 362 

Cleon  and  I 362 

Extract  from  "A  Reverie  in  the 

Grass " 365 

Happiness 757 

O  ye  Tears 364 

Tell  me,  ye  Winged  Winds    .    .  366 

The  Child  and  the  Mourners      .  361 

The  Good  Time  Coming     ...  363 

The  great  Critics 757 

The  Light  in  the  Window  ...  363 

The  little  Man 758 

To  a  Friend  afraid  of  Critics     .  754 

MANN,  CAMERON. 

b.  New  York  City,  April  3, 1851. 

The  Longing  of  Circe    ...    842 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER. 

b.  Canterbury.  Eng.,  Feb.  26,1564. 
d.  Deptford,  June  16,  1593. 

A  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his 
Love 842 

MARSTON.  PHILIP  BOURKE. 
b.  London,  1850.    d.  Feb.,  1887. 

From  Afar 843 

Too  Near 843 

MAHVELL,  ANDREW. 

b.  Winestead,  Yorkshire,  Eng.,  March  2, 1621. 
d.  Loudon,  Aug.  17, 1678. 

A  Drop  of  Dew 367 

MASON,  CAROLINE  ATHERTON. 

May  (From  The  Century) ...  844 
An  open  Secret  "      "  844 

MASSEY,  GERALD. 

b.  Herts,  Eng.,  May  29,  1828. 

And  thou  hast  Stolen  a  Jewel  .  368 
Jerusalem  the  Golden  ....  367 
The  Kingliest  Kings 368 

MCCARTHY,  DENIS  FLORENCE, 
b.  Cork,  Ireland,  1820. 

Summer  Longings 369 

McKAY,  JAMES  I. 

A  Stunmer  Morning 842 

MERRICK,  JAMES. 

b.  Reading,  Eng.,  Jan.  8, 1720. 
d.  Reading,  Eng.,  June  5,  1709. 

The  Chameleon 759 

MICKLE,  WIIXIAM  JULIUS, 
b.  Langholm,  Scotland,  1734. 

The  Sailor's  Wife 372 

MICHELL,  NICHOLAS. 

Alexander  at  Persepolis    .    .    .    370 

Persia 370 

The  Paradise  of  Oabul.      ...    371 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES, 


K 


MILLER,  ABRAHAM  PERRY. 
b.  Ohio,  Oct.  15,  1837. 

Keep  Faith  in  Love  (Consolation)    374 
Refuge  from  Doubt  "  376 

Turn  to  the  Helper  "  373 

MILTON.  JOHN. 

b.  London,  Dec.  9,  IGOS. 
d.  London,  Nov.  8,  lbT4. 

Apostrophe  to  Light  (Paradise 

Lost) 381 

II  Penseroso 376 

L'Allegro 375 

On  his  Blindness 379 

On  Reaching  Twenty-three    .    .  380 

On  Time 374 

Song  on  May  Morning    ....  378 
Stanzas   from    "Hymn  on  the 

Nativity" 379 

The  Bower  of  Adam  and  Eve 

(Paradise  Lost) 380 

To  a  virtuous  young  Lady      .    .  380 

MITCHELL,  WEIR. 

The    Quaker  Graveyard  (From 
The  Centiinj) 844 

MOIR,  DAVID  MACBETH. 

b.  Musselburah,  Scotland,  Jan.  6, 17198. 
d.  Dumfries,  July  6, 1851. 

Stanzas  from  "  Casa  Wappy  "    .    381 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES, 
b.  Irvine,  Scotland,  Nov.  4,  17/1. 
d.  Sheffield,  April  30,  1&>4. 

Aspirations  of  Youth    ....  384 

Forever  with  the  liOrd  ....  385 

Friend  after  Friend  Departs      .  384 

Love  of  Country,  and  of  Home  .  382 

Prayer 383 

The  common  Lot 383 

MOORE,  THOMAS. 

b.  Dublin,  Irelnnd.  May  28, 1779. 
d  Slopertoii,  Feb.  •>o,  1852. 

As  slow  our  Ship 388 

Come,  ye  Disconsolate  ....  387 
Estrangement    through   Trifles 

(Lalla  Rookh) 385 

Extracts  from  Miss  Biddy's  Let- 
ters (Fudge  Family  in  Paris)  .  760 
I  Saw  from"  the  Beach   ....  387 
Oft  in  the  stilly  Night  ....  386 
O  Thou  who  Dry'st  the  Mourn- 
er's Tears 386 

Recognition    of     a     congenial 

Spirit  (Lalfa  Rookh)    ....  385 

Tlie  Bird  Let  loose 386 

The  modern  puffing  System  (Aii 

Epistle  to  Sanmel  Rogers)   .    .  760 

Those  Evening  Bells      ....  387 

Thou  Art,  O  God 387 

MORRIS,  GEORGE  P. 
b.  Philadelphia,  Oct.  12. 1802. 
d.  New  York,  July  6,  1864. 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree  .    .    388 


MORRIS,  WILLIAM. 

b.  England,  1834.    d.  Oct.  3, 1896. 

April       (Earthly  Paradise)  .  .  390 

December       "  "  ,  .  390 

February         "  "  .  .  389 

March  "  "  .  .  389 

MOTHERWELL,  WILLIAM. 

b.  Glasgow,  Scotland,  Oct.  13, 1797. 
d.  Glasgow,  Scotland,  Nov.  1, 1835. 

Jeanie  Morrison    ......  392 

Last  Verses 391 

My  Heid  is  like  to  Rend,  Willie  391 

The  Cavalier's  Song, 392 

They  Come  !    The  merry  Sum- 
mer Months    ....*..  394 

MOULTON,  ELLEN  LOUISE  CHANDLER, 
b.  Pomfret,  Conn.,  April  16, 1835. 

At  Sea 845 

From  a  Window  in  Chamouni   .  846 

Hie  Jacet 846 

Left  behind 845 

My  Saint 846 

NAIRNE,  LADY  CAROLINE  OLIPHANT. 
b.  Gask,  Perthshire,  Scotland.  July  16,  1766. 
d.  Gask,  Oct.  27,  1845.  • 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal    ....    394 

NEWELL,  WILLIAM,  D.D. 

b.  Littleton,  Mass.,  Feb.  25, 1804. 

Serve  God  and  be  Cheerful  .    .    395 

NEWMAN,  JOHN  HENRY. 

b.  London,  Eng.,  Feb.  21,  is-n.    d.  1890. 

A  Voice  from  afar 396 

Flowers  without  Fruit  ....    396 

NORTON,  ANDREWS. 

b.  Hingham,  Mass.,  Dec.  31, 1786. 
d.  Newport,  R.  I.,  Sept.  18, 1853. 

Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower  .    39$ 

NORTON,  CAROLINE  E.  S.  S. 
b.  Hampton  Court,  Eng.,  1808.    d.  1877. 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine     ....    397 
We  have  been  Friends  Together    398 

O'REILLY,  JOHN  BOYLE. 

b.  Ireland,  1844.    d.  Boston,  Aug.  10, 1S90. 

Forever •  *W 

Hidden  Sins 401 

Peace  and  Pain 399 

The  Ride  of  Collins  Graves    .    .  399 

Unspoken  Words 401 

ORNE,  CAROLINE  FRANCES. 

The  Gold  under  the  Roses     .    .    846 

OSGOOD,  FRANCES  SARGENT, 
b.  Boston.  Ma'8.,  June  18, 1811. 
d.  Hingham,  Ma-s.,  May  12,  1880. 

Laborare  est  Orare    .....    402 

OSGOOD,  KATE  PUTNAM.  ^  -^ 

b.  Fryeburg,  Me...  1840.  ^' 

Before  the  Prime "403 

Driving  home  the  Cows     .    .    .    403 


lii 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


O'SHAUGHNESSY,  ARTHUR  W.  E. 

b.  London,  1844.    d   London,  1881. 

Song  of  a  Fellow-worker  .    .    .    404 
PALFREY,  REBECCA  S. 
b.  Cambridge,  Mass. 

White  underneath 405 

PALFREY,     SARAH      HAMMOND    (E. 
Foxton). 
b.  Cambridge,  Mnss. 

The  Child's  Plea 847 

The  Light-house 847 

PALMER.  WILLIAM  PITT. 

b.  Stockbrid-e,  Mass.,  Feb.  22, 1805.    d.  1884. 
The  Smack  in  School      ...        762 
PARKER,  THEODORE. 

b.  Lexington,  Mass.,  Aug.  24,  1810. 
d.  Florence.  Italy,  May  10,  1800. 

The  Higher  Good 406 

The  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the 
Life 406 

PARNELL,  THOMAS, 
b.  Dublin,  Ireland.  K!"!) 
d.  Chester,  England,  July,  1717. 

Hymn  to  Contentment  ....  407 
PARSONS,  THOMAS  WJLLIAM, 
b.  Boston,  Aug.  18,  1819.    d.  Sept.  3,  1892. 

Hudson  River    .......  408 

Saint  Peray 76.3 

The  Groonisniau  to  his  Misti-ess  410 

PATMORE,  COVENTRY  (Kearsey  Digh- 
ton). 
b.  Woodford,  Eng.,  July  23, 1823. 

Sweet  Meeting  of  Desires  {The 

Betrothal) 410 

Would  Wisdom  for   herself  be 
Wooed 411 

PERCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES. 

b.  Berlin,  Conn.,  Sept.  15,  J795. 
d.  Hazelgreen,  Wis.,  May  2,  1857. 

Apostrophe  to  the  Sun  {Prmne- 

theiis,  Part  II.) 411 

The  Coral  Grove 413 

To  Seneca  Lake 413 

PERRY,  NORA, 
b.  Providence,  R.  L 

After  the  Ball 414 

In  an  Hour 415 

Some  Day  of  Days 416 

Tying   her   Bonnet  under  her 
Chin 415 

PHELPS,  ELIZABETH  STUART. 
b.  Boston,  Mass.  Aug.  31, 1844. 

A  Letter 417 

All  the  Rivers 416 

Deserted  Nests 417 

George  Eliot 416 

PIATT,  JOHN  JAMES, 
b.  Milton,  Ind.,  March  1, 1835. 

A  Song  of  Content 419 


Reading  the  Milestone  ....  418 

The  Golden  Hand 418 

The  Love-letter 418 

The  Sight  of  Angels 418 

Two  Patrons 418 

PIATT,  SARAH  M.  B. 
b.  Lexington,  Ky.,  1»35. 

A  Dream's  Awakening  ....  420 

Asking  for  Tears 421 

Calling  the  Dead 421 

Last  Words 419 

Making  Peace    • 420 

That  New  World 420 

The  Flowers  in  the  Ground  .     .  421 

To-day 419 

PIERPONT,  JOHN. 

b.  Litchfield,  Conh.,  April  6, 1785. 

d.  Medford,  Mass.,  Aug.  29, 1866. 

My  Child 422 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  ....  422 
Whittling 764 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN. 

b.  Boston,  Mass.,  Feb.  19, 1809. 
d.  Baltimore,  Md.,  Oct.  7, 1849. 

Annabel  Lee 423 

The  Bells       424 

The  Raven 425 

To  My  Mother 425 

POLLOK,  ROBERT. 

b.  Muirhouse,  Renfrewshire,  Scotland,  1799. 
d.  Southampton,  Eng.,  Sept  15, 1827. 

Lord  Byron  {Course  of  Time)     .    428 

POPE,  ALEXANDER. 

b.  London,  May  21,  168a 

d.  Twickenham,  May  30,  1744. 

An  Author's  Complaint  {Epistle 

to  Dr.  ArtnUhnot) 765 

Belinda  {Rape  of  the  Lock)  .  .  767 
Charity,     gradually    Pervasive 

{Essay  on  Man) 431 

Dullness  {Dunciad) 765 

Excessive  Praise  or  Blame  {Es- 
say on  Criticism) 432 

From  Eloisa  to  Abelard  ...  429 
Just  Judgment  {Essay  on  Criti. 

cism) 432 

Man  {Essay  on  Man)  ....  430 
Merit  beyond  Beauty  {Rape  of 

the  Lock) 768 

Submission  to  Supreme  Wisdom 

{Essay  on  Man) 430 

The  Universal  Prayer  ....  4-^3 
True 'Nobility  {Essay  on  Man)  .  431 
Truth    to    Nature     {Essay   on 

Criticism) 432 

Virtue,  the  sole  Unfailing  H&p- 

■pines?  {Essay  on  Ma7i)     .    .    .    431 
Wit  {Essay  on  Criticism)  .    .    .    43* 

PRAED,  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH. 

b.  London,  Eng.,  1802. 
d.  July  15,  1839. 

Quince 771 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball    ,    ,    .    .    76» 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


liil 


PRENTICE,  GEORGE  DENNISON. 

b.  Preston,  Conn.,  Dec.  18, 1802. 
d.  Louisville.  Jan.  2i,  1870. 

The  River  in  the  Mammoth  Cave    847 
PRESCOTT,  MARY  N. 

Asleep 435 

The  old  Story 433 

To-day 434 

PRESTON,  MARGARET  JUNKIN. 
b.  Lexington,  Va.,  1835. 

Equipoise 434 

God's  Patience 435 

Nature's  Lesson 435 

Ours 434 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Grave    .    .  435 

There'll  Come  a  Day      ....  436 

The  Shadow 435 

The  Tyranny  of  Mood    ....  436 

PRINGLE,  THOMAS. 

b.  Blaiklaw,  Scotland.  Jan.  5, 1789. 
d.  London,  Dec.  5, 1834. 

Afar  in  the  Desert 437 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW. 

b.  Wimborne-Minster,  Eng.,  July  21, 1G64. 
d.  Cambridgeshire,  Sept.  18, 1721. 

An  Epitaph 773 

For  my  own  Monument     .    .    .    772 
From  "The  Thief  and  the  Cor- 
delier" .    .     .    • 774 

Richard's  Theory  of  the  Mind 

{Alma) 774 

The     wise   Man   in   Darkness 

(SQlommi) 439 

The  wise  Man  in  Light  (Solomon)  439 

PROCTER,  ADELAIDE  ANNE. 

b.  London,  Eng.,  Oct.  SO,  1825. 

d.  London,  Feb.  2, 18G4. 

A  Lost  Chord 441 

A  Woman's  Question     ....  442 

Cleansing  Fires 442 

Incompleteness 443 

Judge  Not 440 

One  by  One 440 

Strive,  Wait,  and  Pray      ...  443 

Thankfulness 440 

Too  Late 441 

PROCTER,  BRYAN  WALLER. 

b.  Wiltshire.  Eng..  Nov.  21, 1789. 
d.  London.  Oct.  5,  1874. 

A  Petition  to  Time 444 

A  Prayer  in  Sickness     ....  445 

History  of  a  Life 445 

I  Die  for  thy  sweet  Love   ...  446 

Life 444 

Love  me  if  I  Live 444 

Softly  Woo  away  her  Breath     .  446 

The  Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife  .    .  445 

The  Sea 444 

PROCTOR,  EDNA  DEAN, 
b.  Henniker,  N.  H. 

But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot 
Lose 446 


Contoocook  River 447 

Daily  Dying 448 

Heroes 448 

Sunset  in  Mo8CO\^ 449 

To  Moscow 449 

QUARLES,  FRANCIS. 

b.  Stewards,  near  Rumford,  Eng.  1592. 
d.  London,  Sept.  8, 1C44. 

Grief  for  the  Loss  of  the  Dead  .  451 

On  Doves  and  Serpents     .    .    .  451 

On  Man 451 

On  Sin 451 

On  the  Life  of  Man 451 

The  World 450 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER. 

b.  Haves,  East  Budleigh,  Eng..  1552. 

Beheaded,  Westminster,  Oct.  29,  1C18. 

The  Lie 452 

The  Silent  Lover 462 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN, 
b.  Chester  County,  Penn.,  March  12, 1822. 
d.  New  York,  May  11,  1872. 

Drifting 456 

Sheridan's  Ride 453 

The  Brave  at  Home 456 

The  Closing  Scene 454 

REALF,  RICHARD. 

b.  Uckfleld,  Eng.,  18^. 
d.  Oakland,  CaC,  1878. 

My  Slain 457 

REDDEN,  LAURA  C.  (Howard  Glyndon). 
Fair  and  Fifteen  .    .    .    .    .    .    .848 

RICH,  HELEN. 

b.  New  York  State,  June  18, 1827. 

Silent  Mothers 849 

RICH,  HIRAM. 

b.  Gloucester,  Mass.,  Oct.  28, 1832. 

Still  Tenanted 849 

RICHARDSON,  CHARLES  FRANCIS, 
b.  Francis,  Hallowell,  Me.,  May  29, 1851 

Amends 458 

Imitation 459 

Justice 459 

Patience 459 

Worship    .    .    • 458 

RIORDAN,  ROGER. 

Invocation  (From  TJie  Century)    850 

RITTER,  MARY  L. 

Recompense  (From  TTie  Century)    851 

ROBERTS,  SARAH, 
b.  Portsmouth,  N.  H. 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass      ...    469 

ROBERTSON,    HARRISON, 
b.  Murfreesboro.Tenn.,  Jan.  16, 1856. 

An  Idle  Poet  (From  The  Century)    851 
Coquette  "  "  861 


liv 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES, 


ROGERS,  SAMUEL. 

b.  near  London,  July  30, 1763, 
d.  Dec.  18,  1855. 

Age  {HumarA^jife) 463 

Exhortation  to  Marriage  .  .  .  461 
Guardian  Spirits  {Pleasures  of 

Memory) 464 

Heart  Superior  to  Head    .    .    .  461 

]Mau's  Restlessness 461 

Memory  {Pleasures  of  Memory)  463 

On  aCliild  (/?e^ec/io7is).  ...  461 
The  Old  School-house  {Pleasures 

of  Memory) 464 

The  Passage  from  Birth  to  Age 

{Human  Life) 462 

The  Perversion  of  Great  Gifts  .  460 

The  Selfish  (A'e/cc^ions)     .    .    .  461 

True  Union  {Human  Life)      .    .  462 

EOSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGIANA. 
b.  London,  Eng.,  Dec,  1830.  d.  1894. 

At  Home 466 

Remember •    •  46.5 

Song 465 

Sound  Sleep 465 

The  First  Spring  Day     ....  465 

Up-hill       464 

Wife  to  Husband 466 

ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL. 

b.  London,  Eng.,  1828. 

d.  London,  Eng.,  April  11,  1882. 

Lost  Days 46S 

The  Blessed  Damozel  ....  467 
The  Sea  Limits 467 

RUSSELL,  IRWIN. 

d.  New  Orleans,  Dec,  1879. 

Her  Conquest  (From  The  Cen- 
tury)   851 

SANGSTER,  MARGARET  E. 

b.  New  Rochelle,  N.  Y.,  1833, 

Our  Own ;    ...    468 

Sufficient  unto  the  Day     .    .    .    468 

SARGENT,  EPES. 

b.  Gloucester.  Mass.,  Sept.  27, 1812. 
d.  Dec.  m,  1880. 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  "Wave    .    .  465 

A  Summer  Noon  at  Sea     .    .    .  471 

A  Thought  of  the  Past ....  470 

Cuba 471 

Forget  me  Not 469 

Soul  of  my  Soul 469 

The  Spring-time  will  Return      .  470 

Tropical  Weather 471 

SAVAGE,  MINOT  JUDSON. 
b.  Norridgewock,  Me.,  June  10, 1841. 
Lives  Boston,  Mass. 

Life  in  Death 472 

Light  on  the  Cloud 473 

Pescadero  Pebbles 472 

SAXE,  JOHN  GODFREY. 

b.  Highgate,  Vt.,  June  2, 1816.    d.  Mar. 31,  '87. 
About  Husbands 778 


Early  Rising 777 

How  Cyrus  Laid  the  Cable     .    .  775 

I'm  Growing  old 474 

Little  Jerry,  the  Miller     ...  474 

Railroad  Rhyme 779 

Somewhere 474 

Song  of  Saratoga 776 

The  Family  Man 779 

The  Old  Man's  Motto     ....  473 

•    The  "Puzzled  Census-taker     .    .  776 

The  Superfluous  Man    ....  775. 

To  my  Love 476 

Treasure  in  Heaven 476 

Wouldn't  you  Like  to  Know     .  475 

SAXTON,  ANDREW  BICE. 

b.  Middlefield,  N.  Y.,  April  5,  18,i6. 

Delay  (From  The  Century)  .  852 
Midsummer    "  "  .    852 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER. 

b.  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  Aug.  15, 1771. 
d.  Abbotsford,  Scotland,  S.pt.  21,  1*32, 

A  Picture  of  Ellen  {Lady  of  the 

Lake) 477 

A  Scene  in  the  Highlands  {Lady 

of  the  Lake 477 

Breathes  there  a  Man  {Lay  of 

the  Last  Minstrel) 478 

Faith  in  Unf aith  ( The  Betrothed)  479 

Helvellyn 481 

Love  {Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel)  478 
Melrose   Abbey   by   ]Moonlight 

{Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel)  .    .  478 

Patern  al  Love  ( Lady  of  the  Lake)  478 

Payment  in  Store  {liedgauntlet)  479 

Rebecca's  Hymn  {Ivanlioe)  .  .  479 
Summer  Dawn  at  Loch  Katrine 

{Lady  of  the  Lake) 476 

The   Sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw- 

Hill 480 

The  Violet 481 

Wandering  Willie       .        •    .    .  480 

SEAVER,  EMILY. 

b.  Charlestown,  Mass.,  Nov.  5, 1835, 

The  Rose  of  Jericho      ....    482 

SEWALL,  HARRIET  WTLNSLOW. 
b.  Portland,  Me.,  June  30. 1819. 

Why  thus  Longing? 483 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM, 
b.  Stratf..rd-on-Avon,  April  23, 1564. 
d.  April  23, 1616. 

Constant   Effort   Necessary   to 

Support    Fame  {Troilus   and 

Cressida) 4?6 

End  of  all  Earthly  Glory  {The 

Temj)est 487 

False  Appearance  {Merchant  of 

Venice) 485 

Fear  no  More  {Cymheline)  .  .  488 
Fear   of    Death   {Measure  for 

Measure) 487 

Good   Counsel   of   Polonius  to 

Laertes  {Hamlet) 485 

Ingratitude  {As  you  Like  It)  .  .  484 
Life's  Theatre     "  "       .    .    484 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES, 


Iv 


Life's  Vicissitudes(«enrf/  VTIL)  487 
Love,  the  Solace  of  present  Cal- 
amity        488 

Love,   the  Retriever  of     past 

Losses 489 

Love  Unalterable 489 

Mercy  (Merchant  of  Venice)  .    .  486 

No  Spring  without  the  Beloved .  489 
The   Horse   of  Adonis  (yenus 

and  Adonis) 488 

To  Be,  or  not  to  Be  (Hamlet)    .  484 

To  my  Soul 489 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE. 

b.  Field  Place,  Sussex.  Eng.,  Aug.  4, 1792. 
Drowned  in  the  Bay  of  Spezia,  Italy,  July 
8, 1822. 

Death 492 

From  "  The  Sensitive-Plant "    .  493 
From    "To    a     Lady    with    a 

Guitar" 495 

GoodNight 495 

Love's  Philosophy 490 

Music,  when  soft  Voices  Die      .  492 

Mutability 465 

One  Word  is  too  often  Profaned  490 

The  Cloud 492 

The  World's  Wanderers     ...  492 

Time 492 

To  a  Skylark 490 

SHENSTONE,  WILLIAM. 

b,  Leasowes,  near  Ilales-Owen,  Eng.,  Nov.,  1714. 
d.  Leasowes,  near  Hales-Owen,  £ng.,  Feb.  Jl, 
1763. 

Stanzas     from   "  The    School- 
mistress " 496 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley     .    498 

SHIRLEY,  JAMES. 

b.  London,  1594.    d.  London,  Oct.  29, 1666. 
Death  the  Leveller  (Contention 
of  AJax  and  Ulysses)      .    .    .    498 

SHLTITLEFF,  ERNEST  W. 

b.  Boston,  April  4, 1862. 

Out  Of  the  Dark 852 

SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP. 

b.  Penshurst.  Kent.  Eng..  Nor.  29, 1554. 
d.  Arnheim,  Holland,  Oct.  7, 1586. 

Sonnet  to  Sleep 499 

SIGOURNEY,  LYDIA  HUNTLEY. 

b.  Norwich,  Conn.,  Sept.  1, 1791. 
d.  Ilartford,  Conn.,  June  10, 1863. 

Benevolence 500 

Farewell  of  the  Soul  to  the  Body    499 
The  Coral  Insect 600 

si:m:ms,  william  gilmore. 

b.  Charleston,  8.  C,  April  17, 1806. 

d.  Charleston,  S.  C,  June  11, 1870. 

Friendship .503 

Heart  essential  to  Genius      .    .  502 

Manhood 503 

Night-storm 503 

Progress  in  Denial 501 

Recompense 502 

Solace  of  the  Woods      ....  501 


Triumph 504 

Unhappy  Childhood 503 

SMITH,  ALEXANDER. 

b.  Kilmarnock,  Scotland,  Dec.  31, 1830. 
d.  Wardie,  near  Edinburgh,  Jan.  25, 1867. 

Barbara  (Ilorton) 504 

Glasgow 505 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE  TURNER, 
b.  Sussex,  Eng.,  1749.    d.  1806. 

The  Close  of  Spring 607 

The  Cricket 607 

SMITH,  FLORENCE. 

b.  New  York  City,  March  11, 184.5, 
d.  Fort  Washington,  July  19,  187L 

Somebody  Older 509 

The  Purple  of   the  Poet  (i?ain- 

bow  Songs) 508 

The  Yellow  of  the  Miser  (Bain- 

bow  Songs) 508 

Unrequiting      . 509 

SMITH,  HORACE, 
b.  London,  Dec.  31.  1779. 
d.  Tunbridge  Wells,  July  12, 1849. 

Address  to  a  Mummy  ....  511 
Hymn  to  the  Flowers    ....    510 

SMITH,  MAY  REILLY. 
b.  Brighton,  N.  Y.,  1842. 

If 513 

Sometime 513 

SOUTHEY,  CAROLINE  ANNE  BOWLES. 

b.  Buckland,  Eng.,  Dec.  6, 1787. 
d.  July  20,  1854. 

I  never  Cast  a  Flower  away  .  .  515 
Launch  thy  Bark,  Mariner  .  .  514 
The  Pauper's  Death-bed    ...    514 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT. 

b.  Bristol,  Eng.,  Aug.  12. 1774. 

d.  Cumberland,  Eng.,  March  21, 1843. 

Love's  Immortality  (Curse    of 

Kehama) 517 

Nature's  Questions  and  Faith's 

Answer                   (Thalaba)   .  515 

Night  "  .  516 
Remedial  Suffering          "          .516 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim    ...  520 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore    .    .    .  521 

The  Ebb-tide 522 

The  Holly-Tree 518 

The  Maid  of  Orleans  Girding  for 

Battle  (Joan  of  Arc)  ....  517 
Tlie  old  Man's  Comforts,    and 

how  he  Gained  them  ....  517 

The  Pauper's  Funeral  ....  519 
The    twofold     Power     of     all 

Things  (r/K»/«6«) 516 

To  the  Fire 522 

Written  on  Sunday  Morning  .    .  519 

SOUTHWELL,  ROBERT, 
b.  Hogsham.  Norfolk,  Eng.,  1560. 
d.  London,  Feb.  21,  1595. 

Content  and  Rich 523 


Ivi 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND    TITLES. 


SPALDING,  SUSAN  MARK. 

A  Desire  (From  The  Century)    .  853 

SPENCER,  WILLIAM  ROBERT. 

b.  England,  1709.    d.  Paris,  Oct.  23, 1834. 

The  Speed  of  happy  Hours    .    .  524 

SPENSER,  EDMUND. 

b.  London,  ]o52  or  1J53. 

d.  Westminster,  Jan.  16. 1599. 

A  Hospital  {The  Faerie  Queene)  527 

Angelic  Care          "             **  528 

Avarice  "  "  525 
The  Bride  Beautiful,  Body  and 

Soul  (Epithalamiuvi)  .....  524 
The  Captive  Soul  {2'he  Faerie 

Queene) 525 

Una  and  the  Lion  {The  Faerie 

Queene) 526 

Victory  from  God  {The  Faerie 

Queene) 628 

SPOFFORD,  HARRIET  E.  PRESCOTT. 
b.  Calais,  Me.,  April  3, 1835. 

A  Four  o'clock 531 

A  Snowdrop 531 

Fantasia 530 

Hereafter 529 

Measure  for  Measure     ....  531 

My  own  Song 531 

Our  Neighbor 530 

Palmistry 530 

The  Nun  and  Harp 529 

SPRAGUE,  CHARLES. 

b.  Boston,  Mass.,  Oct.  20, 1'OT. 
d.  Boston,  Mass.,  Jan.  14,  1875. 

From  the  "  Ode  on  Shakespeare  "  534 

Ode  on  Art 532 

The  Family  Meeting 533 

The  Winged  Worshippers  ...  532 

To  my  Cigar 533 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE, 
b.  Hartford,  Conn.,  Oct.  8,1833. 

All  in  a  Lifetime 539 

Laura,  my  Darling 535 

Seeking  the  Mayflower  ....  538 

The  Discoverer 538 

The  Doorstep 537 

The  Test 535 

The  Tryst 536 

The  Undiscovered  Country    .    .  536 

Too  Late 537 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY, 
b.  Ilingham,  Mass.,  July,  1825. 

Abraham  Lincoln 540 

An  old  Song  Reversed  ....  540 

At  Last 540 

How  are  Songs  Begot  and  Bred  541 

Out  of  the  Deeps  of  Heaven  .    .  542 

Pain  and  Pleasure 542 

Rattle  the  Window 541 

Silent  Songs 542 

Songs  Unsung 541 

The  Flight  of  Youth 540 

The  Health 642 


The  Marriage  Knot 781 

The  Mistake 780 

The  Two  Brides 540 

Too  old  for  Kisses 780 

We  Sat  by  the  Cheerless  Fireside  542 
When    the    Drum  of    Sickness 

Beats 641 

STORY,  WILLIAM  T\T:TM0RE. 
b.  Salem,  Mass.,  Feb.  1),  1819.    d.  1895. 

The  Unexpressed 543 

The  Violet     ,...-...    543 
Wetmore  Cottage,  Nahant     .    .    543 

STOWE,  HARRIET  BEECHER. 
b.  Litchfield,  Conn.,  June  1,  1812.    d.  1896. 

Life's  Mysterv 544 

The  other  World 544 

STREET,  ALFRED  BILLINGS. 

b.  Poughkecpsie,  N.  Y.,  Dec.  18, 1811. 
d.  June  2, 1881. 

A  Forest  Walk 548 

A  Picture  ( The  Nook  in  the  For- 
est)        549 

Cayuga  Lake              {Frontenac)  547 

Quebec  at  Sunrise               "  515 

Quebec  at  Sunset                "  545 

The  Bluebird's  Song 549 

The  Canadian  Spv'mg{Frontena<;)  546 

SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN. 

b.  Whitton,  Eng..  1609. 
d.  Paris,  May  7,  1641. 

Constancy 550 

I  Prithee  Send  me  back  my  Heart  550 
Why  so    Pale  and  Wan,  Fond 
Lover 550 

SURREY,  EARL  OF  (Henry  Howard), 
b.  Englnnd,  1516. 
d.  London,  Jan.  21, 1517. 

From  "  No  Age  is  Content"  .    .  551 
In  Praise  of  his  Lady  Love  com- 
pared with  all  Others      ...  551 
The  Means  to  attain  Happy  Life  £51 

SWIFT,  JONATHAN. 

b.  England,  1GC7.    d.  1745. 

Verses  on  his  own  Death  .    .    .    781 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES, 
b.  Holmwood,  Eng.,  April  5, 1837. 

A  Forsaken  Garden 653 

A  Match 555 

From    "A  Vision  of  Spring  in 

Winter " 552 

From  "  Christmas  Antiphones  "  556 

In  Memory  of  Barry  Cornwall  .  552 

SYMONDS,  JOHN  ADDINGTON. 
b.  Cxford,  Eng.,  April  10,  18l>7.    d.  1893. 

Beatillli 558 

Farewell 559 

From  Friend  to  Friend  ....  560 

Mene,  Mene 558 

New  Life,  New  Love 559 

On  the  Hillside 559 

Self  {The  Alps  and  Italy) ...  560 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


Ivii 


Sonnets  from  "  Intellectual  Iso- 
lation"    561 

The  Ponte  di  Paradise  .    •    .    .  560 

The  Prayer  to  Mnemosyne     .    .  560 

The  Will    . 569 

TALFOURD,  SIR  THOMAS  NOON, 
b.  Doxey,  Eng.,  Jan.  26, 1795. 
d.  Staftord,  Eng.,  Marcii  13,  1854. 

Little  Kindnesses  (Ion)  ....    562 
On  the  Reception  of  Wordsworth 
at  Oxford 562 

TANNAHILL,  ROBERT. 

b.  Paisley,  Scotland,  Jui-.e  3, 1774. 
d.  Lancashire,  Eng.,  May  17, 1810. 

The  Flower  o'  Dumblane  ...    563 
The  Midges  Dance    aboon  the 
Burn 563 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD. 

b.  Kennett  Square,  Penn.,  Jan.  11, 1825. 
d.  Berlin,  Dec.  19, 1878. 

A  Funeral  Thought 565 

Before  the  Bridal 566 

In  the  Meadows 566 

On  the  Headland 564 

Proposal 566 

Squandered  Lives 566 

The  Father 5&4 

The  Lost  May 567 

The  Mvstery .  567 

The  Song  of  the  Camp  ....  568 

To  a  Bavarian  Girl 569 

Wind  and  Sea 665 

TAYLOR,  SIR  HENRY. 

b.  Durham,  Eng.,  1800.    d.  March  27, 1886. 
Love  Reluctant  to  Endanger  its 

Object  (Philip  Van  Artevelde)    570 
Nature's  Need              '*        "  571 

Relaxation                    "       "  571 

The  Mystery  of  Life    "        "  570 

Unknown  Greatness     "        "  596 

W^hat  Makes  a  Hero  ?    .    .    .    .    571 
When  Joys  are  Keenest  {Philip 
Van  Artevelde) 571 

TAYLOR,  JANE. 

b.  London,  Sept.  23, 1783. 

d.  Ongar,  Essexshire,  April  2, 1824. 

The  Squire's  Pew      .    ,    .     .    .    572 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED. 

b.  Somersby,  Lincolnshire,  Eng.,  1809.    d.  1892. 

Ask  me  no  jSIore  (The  Princess)  578 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra  .    .    .  582 

Break,  Break.  Break     ....  584 

BuglQ  ^ong  (The  Princess)    .    .  577 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade    .  584 

Circumstance 585 

Come  not  when  I  am  Dead  .  .  585 
Condition  of  Spiritual  Commu- 
nion (In  Meinoriam)  ....  574 
Couplets  from  Locksley  Hall  .  573 
Cradle  Song  (T^e  PW«ces.9)  .  .  578 
Faith  in  Doubt  (Tn  Memoriam)  .  575 
For  his  Child's  Sake  (The  Prin- 
cess)      577 


Garden  Song  (Maud)      ....  580 

Go  not,  Happy  Day  (Maud)    .    .  581 

Hope  for  All  (In  Memoriam)  .    .  571 
Husband  to  Wife  (The  Miller's 

Daughter) 579 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  .    .    .  583 

Ijive  (The  Miller's  Daughter)    .  579 

Man  and  Woman  ( The  Princess)  578 

Move  Eastward,  Happy  Earth  .  585 
Not  at  All,  or  All  in  All  (Merlin 

and  Vivien) 580 

Now  Lies  the  Earth  (  T^e  Prin- 
cess)      578 

Reconciliation  ( The  Princess)    .  577 
Ring  out,  Wild  Bells  (In  Memo- 
riam)    576 

Soul  to  Soul  (In  Memoriam)  .  .  575 
Strong  Son  of  God  (In  Memoriam )  574 
Tears,  Idle  Tears  (The  Princess)  577 
The  Death  of  the  Old  Year  .  .  582 
The  Nuns'  Song  (Guinevere)  .  .  581 
The  Tears  of  Heaven  ....  585 
To  a  Friend  in  Heaven  (In  Me- 
moriam)      576 

What  I  would  be  (The  Miller's 

Daughter) 579 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE 

b.  Calcutta,  E.  I.,  1811. 
d.  London,  Dec.  24, 1863. 

At  the  Church-gate 585 

Little  Billee 783 

Sorrows  of  Werther 783 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse      .  782 

THAXTER,  CELIA. 

b.  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  1835.  d.  1894. 

A  Mussel  Shell 587 

Beethoven 590 

Courage 589 

Discontent 586 

Farewell 586 

In  the  Kittery  Churchyard  .    .  589 

Love  shall  Save  us  All  .    .    .    .  588 

Reverie 587 

Tlie  Sandpiper 591 

The  Sunrise  never  Failed  us  yet  .587 

To  a  Violin •    .  588 

THOMAS,  EDITH  M. 

b.  Litchfield,  Ohio.  1854. 

Flower  and  Fruit 853 

l^OMPSON,  MAURICE. 

b.  Fairfield,  Indiana,  Sept.  9, 1844. 

Before  Dawn 854 

The  Morning  Hills S53 

THOMSON,  JAMES. 

b.  Ednam,  Koxburghshire,  Scotland,  Sept.  11, 
1700.     d.  New  Lane,  near  Richmond,  Eng., 
Aug.  27,  1748. 
A  State's  Need  of  Virtue  (Lib- 

erty) •    •    •    •  ^^ 

Birds,  and  their  Loves  (TAp  Sea- 
sons)    593 

Contentment •    •  o»» 

Death   amid   the    Snows   (The 

Seasons) 593 


Iviii 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES, 


Excess  to  be  Avoided  ( The  Cas- 
tle of  Indolence) 596 

Harvest  Time  (7'/(e  Reasons)  .     .  592 
Health  Necessary  to  Happy  Life 

(  The  Castle  of  Indolence)     ,    .  597 

Independence  {Liberty)      .    .    .  694 
Nature's  Joy  Inalienable  ( The 

Castle  of  Indolence)     ....  596 
Pure  and'Happy  Love  {T'he  Sea- 
sons)      591 

Kepose  ( The  Castle  of  Indolence)  595 

Rule,  Britannia 597 

The  Apollo,  and  Venus  of  Medi- 
ci (Liberty) 595 

The  Folly  of  Hoarding  ( The  Cas- 
tle of  Indolence) 596 

The  State  of  the  World  had  Men 
Lived  at  Ease  ( The  Castle  of 

Indolence) 596 

The  Tempest  ( The  Seasons)   .    .  591 

The  Zeal  of  Persecution  (Z/i6er^2/)  595 

THRALE,  HESTER  L.  (Piozzi). 
b.  Wales,  17^0.    d.  1821. 

The  Three  Warnings      ....  784 

TICKNOR,  FRANK  O. 

Gray  .    .  ' 854 

Little  Giffen.    . 854 

TILTON,  THEODORE. 

b.  New  York,  N.  Y.,  Oct.  2,  IS.'Jo. 

Love  in  Age  ( IViou  and  I)  .    .    .  598 

Recompense 601 

Sir  Marmaduke's  Musings      .    .  601 

The  Four  Seasons 600 

The  Two  Ladders 602 

Under  the  Sod  {Thou  and  I)  .    .  599 

TLMROD,  HENRY. 

A  Common  Tliought 855 

Decoration  Ode 855 

Hark  to  the  Shouting  Wind  .    .  855 

TRENCH    RICHARD  CHENEVIX. 
b.  Dublin,  Ire.,  Sept.  9, 1807.  d.  Mar.,  1886. 

Falling  Stars 606 

Happiness    in  Little  Things  of 

the  Present 605 

Harmosan      - 606 

Lord,  many  Times  I  am  Aweary  603 

Patience 604 

Sadness  born  of  Beauty    .    .    .  603 

The  Bees 605 

The  Diamond 606 

The  Ermine 605 

The  Lent  Jewels 604 

The  Nightingale 605 

The  Snake 605 

The  Tiger 605 

Three  Sonnets  on  Prayer  .    .    .  602 
Weak   Consolation  {Lines  to  a 

Friend) 603 

TROWBRIDGE,  JOHN  TOWNSEND. 
b.  Ogden,  N.  Y.,  Sept.  8, 1827. 

Darius  Green 788 

Midsummer 609 


MidAvinter 608 

My  Comrade  and  I 613 

Real  Estate 610 

Stanzas  from  "  Service  "...  612 

The  Name  in  the  Bark  ....  607 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  .  611 

The  Restored  Picture     ....  608 

The  Vagabonds 785 

TUPPER,  MARTIN  FARQUHAR. 

b.London.Eng.,  July  17,1810.  d.  Nov.  29, 1889. 

Argument  {Indirect  Influences)  .  617 
Foreknowledge       Undesirable 

{Mystery) 620 

Hints  on  Pre-existence  {Memory)  619 
Ill-chosen     Pursuits     {Self-Ac- 
quaintance)       614 

Ill-christened  {Names)  ....  618 

Late  Valuation  {Neglect)  ...  620 

I.,etters  ( Writing) 615 

IjHq  {To-daij) 620 

Mental  Supremacy  (JSeaM^?/')  .    .  616 

Procrastination  (7 b-morroiw) .    .  621 
Spiritual     Feelers    {Truth     in 

Things  False) 615 

The  Conqueror  {Beautij)    .    .    .  616 
The   Dignity   and  Patience   of 

Genius  {Fame) 615 

The   Force   of  Trifles   {Indirect 

Influences) 619 

The  Power  of  Suggestion  {Indi- 
rect Influences)    617 

The  Source  of  Man's  Ruling  Pas- 
sion {Beauty) 616 

The  Word  of  Bane  and  Blessing 

{To-morrow) 620 

To  Murmurers  {Neglect)    .    .    .  619 

VAUGHAN,  HENRV. 

b.  Newton,  St.  Bridget.  South  Wales,  Eng.,  1621 
d.  Newton,  April  23, 1693. 

From  "  Childhood  " 622 

From  "  Rules  and  Lessons  "  .    .  624 

From  "  St.  Mary  Magdalen  "      .  622 

From  the  "  Christian  Politician  "  623 

Like  as  a  Nurse 626 

Peace 622 

Providence 623 

Sundays 624 

Tlie  Pursuit 622 

The  Seed  Growing  Secretly   .    .  621 

The  Shower 621 

They  are  all  Gone 621 

To  his  Books 626 

VERY,  JONES. 

b.  Salem,  Mass.,  Aug.  28, 1813. 
d.  18S0. 

Home  and  Heaven 627 

Nature 627 

The  World 627 

WALLER,  EDMUND. 

b.  Coleshill.  Eng.,  March  3, 1605  or  1606. 
d.  Beaconsfield,  Eng.,  Oct.  21, 1687. 

Old  Age  and  Death 628 

On  a  Girdle 628 

The  Rose 628 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


lix 


WATTS,  ISAAC. 

b.  Southampton,  Eng..  July  14, 1674. 

d.  Theobalds,  Newinglon.  Eng.,  Nov.  25, 1748. 

Insieniticaiit  Existence  ....  865 
Lord,  when  I  quit  this  Earthly 

Stage       856 

The  Heavenly  Canaan  ....  856 

WEBSTER,  AUGUSTA, 
b.  England,  1841. 

From  "  A  Preacher  "     ....    629 

On  the  Lake 631 

The  Artist's  Dread  of  Blindness 

{A  Painter) 630 

TlieGift 631 

Two  Maidens 631 

WELBY,  AMELIA  B. 

b.  St.  Nicholas.  Ind.,  Feb.  3, 1819 
d.  Louisville,  Ky.,  May  3, 1852. 

Twilight  at  Sea 856 

WESLEY,  CHARLES. 

b.  Epworth,  Lincolnshire,  Eng.,  Dec.  18, 1708. 
d.  Loudon,  March  29, 1788. 

Come,  let  us  Anew 633 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul    .    .    .  632 
Stanzas  from  "  The  True  Use  of 

Music" 632 

llie  Only  Light 632 

WHEELER,  ELLA. 

Secrets 633 

WHITE,  BLANCO. 

b.  Seville,  Spain,  July  U,  1775. 
d.  Liverpool,  Eng.,  May  20, 1841. 

To  Night 634 

WHITE,  HEXRY  KIRKE. 

b.  Nottingham,  Eng.,  March  21,  1785. 
d.  Cambridge,  Eng.,  Oct.  19, 1806. 

A  Little  before  Death   ....  636 

Ode  to  Disappointment ....  635 

Solitude 634 

The  Stanzas  added  to  Waller's 

"Rose" 636 

To  an  Early  Primrose    ....  634 

To  Misfortune 636 

WHITMAN,  SARAH  HELEN, 
b.  Providence.  R.  I.,  1803. 
d.  June  27, 1878. 

The  Last  Flowers 857 

Sonnets  to  Edgar  Allan  Poe.     .    856 

WHITNEY,  ADELINE  D.  T. 
b.  Boston,  1824. 

Behind  the  Mask 637 

Equinoctial 636 

Hearth-glow 638 

I  will  Abide  in  Thine  House  .    .  638 

Larvae 638 

Sunlight  and  Starlight  ....  638 

The  Three  Lights 637 

WHITTIER,  ELIZABETH  HUSSEY. 

b.  Haverhill,  Mass.,  Dec.  7,  1815. 
d.  Amesbury,  Mass.,  Sept.  3, 1804. 

Charity 639 


WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF. 

b.  Haverhill,  Mass,  Dec.  17, 1807.  d.  Sept.  7, 1892. 

Barbara  Frietchie 642 

In  School-days 640 

MaudMuller 643 

My  Playmate 649 

MyPsaim 641 

Nature's  Reverence  {Tent  on  the 

Beach) 645 

The  Barefoot  Boy 6.S9 

The  Pressed  Gentian 646 

Universal  Salvation  {Tent  on  the 

Beach) 645 

WILDE,  OSCAR. 

Easter-day     ........  647 

Impressions  du  Matin    ....  648 

Madonna  Mia 648 

Requiescat &48 

Silhouettes 648 

Sonnet 648 

Sunrise 648 

AVILDE,  RICHARD  HENRY 

b.  Dublin,  Ireland,  Sept.  24,  1789. 
d.  New  Orleans,  Sept.  10, 1847. 

My  Life   is   like   the   Summer 
Rose * 649 

To  the  Mocking  Bird     ....    649 

WILLIAMS,  HELEN  MARIA 
b.  near  Berwick,  Eng.,  1762. 
d.  Paris,  Dec,  1827. 

Sonnet  to  Hope 650 

Whilst  Thee  I  Seek 650 

WILLIS,  NATHANIEL  PARKER, 
b.  Portland,  Me..  Jan.  20,  1807. 
d.  Idlewild,  N.  Y.,  Jan.  20, 1867. 

From  "  Absalom  " 654 

On  the  Picture  of  a  Child  Tired 

of  Play 651 

Saturday  Afternoon 651 

The  Belfry  Pigeon 653 

The  Burial  of  the  Champion  of 

his  Class 652 

To  a  City  Pigeon 650 

To  Giulia  Grist 653 

Unseen  Spirits  .    , 653 

WILLSON,  FORCEYTHE. 
b.  Little  Genesee,  N.  Y.,  1837. 
d.  1867. 

The  Old  Sergeant 655 

WILSON,  JOHN  (Christopher  North), 
b.  Paisley,  Scotland,  May  18, 1785. 
d.  Edinburgh,  April  3, 1S54. 

The  Evening  Cloud 657 

The  Shipwreck  {Isle  of  Palms) .    657 

WINTER,  WILLIAM. 

b.  Gloucester,  Mass  ,  July  15, 1836. 

A  Dirge 661 

After  All 6.59 

Homage 669 

The  Golden  Silence 661 

Tlie  Question 660 

The  White  Flag 658 

Withered  Roses •  .  66« 


Ix 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   TITLES. 


WITHER,  GEORGE. 

b.  Brentworth,  Eng.  June  11, 1588. 
d.  London,  May  2,  1«J7. 

For  a  Servant 663 

For  a  Widower  or  Widow  .    .    .  662 

From  "  Poverty  " 662 

Hymn  for  Anniversary  Marriage 

Days 662 

WOLCGT,  JOHN  (Peter  Pindar). 

b.  Dodbrooke,  Devonsliire,  Eng.,  1738. 
d.  Soniers  Town,  London,  Jan.  13, 1813. 

To  my  Candle 664 

The  Pilgrims  and  tlie  Peas    .     .    792 
The  Razorseller 792 

WOLFE,  CHARLES. 

b.  Dublin,  Ireland,  Dec.  14, 1791. 

d.  Cove  of  Cork,  now  Queenstown,  Feb,  21, 1823. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  .    .     .    665 

Go,  Forget  Me 665 

To  Mary 664 

WOODW^ORTH,  SAMUEL, 
b.  Scituate,  Mass.,  Jan.  13, 1785. 
d.  New  York,  Dec.  9,  1842. 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket  ....    666 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM. 

b.  Cockermouth,  Eng.,  April  7,  1770. 
d.  Rydal  Mount,  April  23,  1850. 

Apostrophe  to  the  Poet's  Sister 
{Lines  composed  a  few  miles 

frcrni  Tintern  Abbey)  ....  667 

Evening 675 

From  "Intimations  of   Immor- 
tality"      650 

Lucy 672 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet     ....  675 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight .  674 

The  Daffodils 671 

The  Deaf  Dalesman  {Excursion)  669 

The  Prop  of  Faith       .      "  668 
The   Solace   of    Nature   {Lines 
composed   a   feio  miles  above 

Tintern  Abbey) 666 

Tlie  World  is   too  much  Avith 

us 675 

Thy  Art  be  Nature 674 

To  a  Distant  Friend 672 

To  a  Skylark 673 

To  a  Young  Lady 671 

To  Sleep ,672 

To  the  Cuckoo 676 

TA^ilight 672 

Undeveloped  Genius  {Excursion)  668 

We  are  Seven 673 

Westminster  Bridge 675 


WOTTON,  SIR  HENRY. 

b.  Bocton   (or  Boughton  Hall),  Kent,  Eng., 
March  31, 1528.    d.  Eton,  Dec,  1639. 
A  Happy  Life 676 

WYATT,  SIR  THOMAS. 

b.  Alington  Castle,  Kent,  Eng.,  1503. 

d.  Sherborne,  Eng.,  Oct.  11,  1542. 

A  Lover's  Prayer 677 

Description  of  the  One  he  would 

Love 677 

Pleasure  mixed  with  Pain     .         677 

YOUNG,  EDWARD. 

b.  IJpham,  Hampshire,  Eng.,  1C84. 
d.  Weliwyn,  Hertfordshire,  April  12, 1765. 
All   Change;  no  Death  {Night 

Thoughts) Vl.    683 

Ambition  {Night  Thoughts)  VII.    683 
Cheerfulness      in      Misfortune 

{Night  Thoughts)  ...  IX.  684 
Conscience  (iS'tf/ft^  Thoughts)  II.  678 
Cruelty  {Night  Thoughts)  .  III.  681 
Different   Sources   of    Funeral 

Tears  {Night  'Thoughts) .  V.  682 
Etfect  of  Contact  with  the  World 

{Night  Thoughts)  ...  II.  679 
Effort,  the  Gauge  of  Greatness 

(Night  Thoughts)  .  .  .  II.  680 
False  Terrors  in  view  of  Death 

{Night  Thoughts)  ...  IV.  682 
Insufiiciency     of      the    World 

{Night  Thoughts)  ...  II.  680 
Joy     to     be     Shared     {Night 

Thoughts) II.    678 

Power    of    the    World    {Night 

Thoughts) V.     683 

Procrastination,  and  Forgetful- 

ness       of      Death        {Alight 

Thoxights) I.    677 

The  Crowning  Disappointment 

{Night  Thoughts)  ...  11.  679 
The  End  of  the  Virtuous  {Night 

Thoughts) IL     680 

The    Glory    of     Death  {Night 

Thouqhts) III.     681 

The  other  Life  the  End  of  This 

{Night  Thoughts)  .  .  .  III.  681 
The    World    a     Grave     {Night 

Thoughts) IX.    684 

Time,  its  Use  and  Misuse  {Night 

Thoughts) II.    678 

Virtue,   the  Measure  of  Years 

{Night  Thouqhts)  ...  V.  683 
V^'isdom  {Night  Thoughts)  VIII.    684 

YOUNG,  WILLIAM, 
b.  Monmouth,  Ills.,  1847. 

The  Horseman  (From  The  Cen- 
tury)   858 


Henry  Abbey. 


THE   CALIPWS  MAGNANIMITY. 

A    TKAVELLEU    acioss    the    desert 
waste 
Found  on  his  way  a  cool,  palm- 
shaded  spring, 

And  the  fresh  water  seemed  to  his 
pleased  taste, 
In  the  known  world,  the  most  de- 
licious thing. 

"  Great  is  the  caliph!"  said  he;  "I 
for  him 

Will  fill  my  leathern  bottle  to  the 
brim." 

He  sank  the  bottle,  forcing  it  to  drink 
Until  the  gurgle  ceased  in  its  lank 

throat ; 
And  as  he  started  onward,  smiled  to 

think 
That  he  for  thirst  bore  God's  sole 

antidote. 
Days  after,  with  obeisance  low  and 

meet. 
He  laid  his  present  at  the  caliph's  feet. 

Forthwith  the  issue  of  the  spring  was 
poured 
Into  a  cup,   on   whose   embossed 
outside. 

Jewels,   like  solid  water,   shaped   a 
gourd. 
The  caliph  drank,  and  seemed  well 
satisfied, 

Nay,  wisely  pleased,  and  straightway 
gave  command 

To  line  with  gold  the  man's  work- 
hardened  hand. 

The  courtiers,  looking  at  the  round 
reward. 
Fancied  that  some  unheard-of  vir- 
tue graced 


The  bottled  burden  home  for  their 

loved  lord. 
And  of  the  liquid  gift  asked  but  to 

taste. 
The  caliph  answered  from  his  potent 

throne ; 
"  Touch  not  the  water;  it  is  mine 

alone!" 

But  soon  —  after  the  hmnble  giver 
went. 
O'erflowing    with    delight,    which 
bathed  his  face  — 

The    caliph  told    his    courtiers    the 
intent 
Of  his  denial,  saying:  "  It  is  base 

Not  to  accept  a  kindness  when  ex- 
pressed 

By  no  low  motive  of  self-interest. 

"  The  water  was  a  gift  of  love  to  me, 
Which  I  with  golden  gratitude  re- 
paid. 

I  would  not  let  the  honest  giver  see 
That,  on  its  way,  the  crystal  of  the 
shade 

Had  changed,  and  was  impure;  for 
so,  no  less. 

His  love,  thus  scorned,  had  turned  to 
bitterness. 

"  I  granted  not  the  warm,  distasteful 
draught 
To  asking  lips,  because  of  firm  mis- 
trust^ 

Or    kindly    fear,    that,    if    another 
quaffed, 
He  would  reveal  his  feeling  of  dis- 
gust. 

And  he,  who  meant  a  favor,  would 
depart. 

Bearing   a    wounded    and    dejected 
heart." 


ABBEY, 


,   -     MAX JA  /iusQSfON. 
Our  old  golonia)  town  is  new  with 

Tliq  lo^irTg  trees^  tji^'  c\9^V  across 
the  street's," 
Grow  greener  sleeved  with  bursting 
buds  each  day. 
Still  this  year's  May  the  last  year's 
May  repeats; 
Even  the  old  stone  houses  half  renew 
Their  youth  and  beauty,  as  the  old 
irees  do. 

High  over  all,  like  some  divine  de- 
sire 
Above  our  lower  thoughts  of  daily 
care, 

The  gray,  religious,  heaven-touching 
spire 
Adds  to  the  quiet  of  the  spring- 
time air; 

And  over  roofs  the  birds  create  a  sea. 

That  has   no  shore,   of    their    May 
melody. 

Down  through  the  lowlands  now  of 
lightest  green, 
The  undecided  creek  w^inds  on  its 
way. 

There  the  lithe  willow  bends  with 
graceful  mien. 
And  sees  its  likeness  in  the  depths 
all  day; 

While  in  the  orchards,  flushed  with 
May's  warm  light. 

The  bride-like  fruit-trees  dwell,  at- 
tired in  white. 

But  yonder  loom  the  mountains  old 
and  grand. 
That  off,  along  dim  distance,  reach 
afar, 

And  high  and  vast,  against  the  sun- 
set stand, 
A  dreamy  range,  long  and  irreg- 
ular — 

A  caravan  that  never  passes  by, 

Whose  camel-backs  are  laden  with 
the  sky. 

So.  like  a  caravan,  our  outlived  years 
Loom  on  the  introspective  land- 
scape seen 


Within  the  heart:  and  now,  when 

May  appears, 
And  earth  renews  its  vernal  bloom 

and  green. 
We  but  renew  our  longing,  and  we 

say: 
"Oh,  would  that  life  might  ever  be 

all  May! 

"Would   that  the  bloom  of    youth 

which  is  so  brief, 
The  bloom,  the  May,  the  fullness 

ripe  and  fair 
Of  cheek  and  limb,  might  fade  not 

as  the  leaf; 
Would  that  the  heart  might  not 

grow  old  Mith  care, 
Nor  love  tin-n  bitter,  nor  fond  hope 

decay ; 
But  soul  and    body  lead  a  life    of 

May!" 


FACIE  BAT. 

As  thoughts  possess  the  fashion  of 

the  mood 
That  gave  them   birth,   so    every 

deed  we  do 
Partakes  of  our  inborn  disquietude 
AVhich  spurns  the  old  and  reaches 

toward  the  new. 
The  noblest  works  of  human  art  and 

pride 
Show  that  their   makers  were    not 

satisfied. 


For,  looking  down  the  ladder  of  our 
deeds. 
The  rounds  seem  slender;  all  past 
work  appears 

Unto    the    doer    faulty;    the    heart 
bleeds. 
And  pale  Regret  comes  weltering 
in  tears, 

To  think  how  poor  our  best  has  been, 
how  vain, 

Beside  the  excellence  we  would  at- 
tain. 


ADAMS  —  ADDISON. 


Sarah   Flower  Adams. 


NEARER,  MY  GOD,  TO  THEE, 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ; 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee. 

Though  like  a  wanderer, 

Daylight  all  gone. 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone. 
Yet  in  my  dreams,  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee. 

There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  up  to  heaven ; 


All  that  thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given, 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee. 

Then  with  my  waking  thoughts, 
Bright  with  thy  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs. 
Bethel  I'll  raise; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee. 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing. 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot 

Upwfird  I  fly, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee. 


Joseph  Addison. 


APOSTROPHE    TO   LIBERTY. 


O  Liberty,  thou  goddess  heavenly 
bright, 

Profuse  of  bliss,  and  pregnant  with 
delight! 

Eternal    pleasures    in    thy  presence 
reign. 

And  smiling  plenty  leads  thy  wanton 
train; 

Eased  of  her  load,  subjection  grows 
more  light, 

And  poverty  looks  cheerful  in  thy 
sight; 

Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  na- 
ture gay, 

Giv'st  beauty  to  the  sun,  and  pleas- 
ure to  the  day. 
Thee,    goddess,    thee,   Britannia's 
isle  adores; 

How  has  she  oft  exhausted  all  her 
stores. 


How  oft  in  fields  of  death  thy  pres- 
ence sought. 
Nor    thinks    the    mighty  prize    too 

dearly  boiight! 
On  foreign  mountains  may  the  sim 

refine 
The  grape's  soft  juice,  and  mellow  it 

to  wine ; 
With  citron  groves  adorn  a  distant 

soil. 
And  the  fat  olive  swell  with  floods  of 

oil: 
We  envy  not  the  warmer  clime,  that 

lies 
In  ten  degrees  of   more    indulgent 

skies ; 
Nor  at  the  coarseness  of  our  heaven 

repine. 
Though  o'er  our  heads  the  frozen 

Pleiads  shine: 
'Tis  liberty  that  crowns  Britannia's 

isle, 
And  makes  her  barren  rocks  and  her 

bleak  mountains  smile. 


AKENSIDE. 


CATO'S  SOLILOQUY. 

It  must  be  so  —  Plato,  thou  leason'st 

well!  — 
Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this 

fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality? 
Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  in- 
ward horror. 
Of  falling  into  nought  ?  why  shrinks 

the  soul 
Back    on    herself,    and    startles    at 

destruction? 
'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us; 
'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an 

hereafter. 
And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 
Eternity!    thou    pleasing,    dreadful 

thought ! 
Through    what    variety    of    untried 

being. 
Through    what     new     scenes    and 

changes  must  we  pass  ? 
The  wide,  th'   unbounded  prospect 

lies  before  me; 
Bui  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness 

rest  upon  it. 
Here  will  I  hold.     If  there's  a  power 

above  us  — 
And  that  there  is,  all  nature  cries 

aloud 
Through    all    her  works  —  he  must 

delight  in  virtue; 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must 

be  happy. 
But  when  ?  or  where  ?    This  world 

was  made  for  Ceesar. 
I'm    weary    of    conjectures.       This 

must  end  them. 
[Layimj  his  hand  on  his  sioord.] 


Thus  am  I  doubly  armed :  my  death 

and  life. 
My    bane    and    antidote,    are    both 

before  me: 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an 

end; 
But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never 

die. 
The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence, 

smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its 

point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun 

himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink 

in  years ; 
But  thou  Shalt  flourish  in  immortal 

youth, 
Unhurt    amidst    the    wars    of    ele- 
ments. 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush 

of  worlds. 
What    means    this    heaviness    that 

hangs  upon  me? 
This  lethargy  that  creeps  through  all 

my  senses  ? 
Nature  oppressed,  and  harassed  out 

with  care. 
Sinks  down  to  rest.     This  once  I'll 

favor  her, 
That  my  awakened  soul  may  take 

her  flight. 
Renewed   in  all    her    strength,   and 

fresh  with  life, 
An  offering  fit  for  heaven.     Let  guilt 

or  fear 
Disturb  man's  rest:  Cato  knows  nei- 
ther of  them; 
Indifferent  in  his  choice  to  sleep  or 

die. 


Mark  Akenside. 


01^  A  SERMON  AGAINST  GLORY. 

Come  then,  tell  me,  sage  divine. 

Is  it  an  offence  to  own 
That  our  bosoms  e'er  incline 

Toward  innnortal  Glory's  throne? 


For  with  me  nor  pomp,  nor  pleasure. 
Bourbon'smight,Braganza'streasure, 
So  can  fancy's  dreani  rejoice, 
So  conciliate  reason's  choice. 
As  one  approving  word  of  her  impar 
tial  voice. 


AKENSIDE. 


If  to  spurn  at  noble  praise 

Be  the  passport  to  thy  heaven, 
Follow  thou  those  gloomy  ways  — 

No  such  law  to  me  was  given ; 
Nor,  i  trust,  shall  1  deplore  me, 
Faring  like  my  friends  before  me; 
Nor  an  holier  place  desire 
Than  Timoleon's  arms  acquire. 
And  TuUy's  curule  chair,  and  Mil- 
ton's golden  lyre. 


[From  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination.] 

THE    DEVELOPMENT    OF   POETIC 
AND    AUTISTIC  ^'PE  AT  IONS. 

By  these  mysterious  ties,  the  busy 

power 
Of  memory  her  ideal  train  presences 
Entire;  or  when  they  would  elude 

her  watch, 
Reclaims     their    fleeting     footsteps 

from  the  waste 
Of  dark  oblivion ;  thus  collecting  all 
TJ^e  various  forms  of  being,  to  present 
Before  ihc  curious  eye  of  mimic  art 
Their  largest  choice:  like   Spring's 

unfolded  blooiiie 
Exhaling  sweetness,  that  tb«  skilful 

bee 
May  taste  at  will  from  their  selected 

spoils 
To  work  her  dulcet  food.     For  not 

the  expanse 
Of  living  lakes  in  summer's  noontide 

calm, 
Reflects  the  bordering  shade  and  sun- 
bright  heavens 
With    fairer    semblance;     not    the 

sculptured  gold 
More    faithful    keeps   the   graver's 

lively  trace, 
Than    he    whose    birth   the    sister- 
powers  of  art 
Propitious    viewed,    and    from    his 

genial  star 
Shed  influence  to  the  seeds  of  fancy 

kind, 
Than  liis  attempered    bosom    must 

preserve 
The  seal  of    nature.     There  alone, 

unchanged 


Her  form  remains.    The  balmy  walks 

of  May 
There  breathe  perennial  sweets:  the 

trembling  chord 
Resounds   forever  in  the  abstracted 

ear. 
Melodious;  and  the  virgin's  radiant 

eye, 
Superior  to  disease,  to  grief,  and  time, 
Shines  with  unbating  lustre.     Thus 

at  length 
Endowed  with  all  that  nature  can 

bestow. 
The  child  of    fancy  oft   in  silence 

bends 
O'er  these  mixed  treasures  of   his 

pregnant  breast 
With  conscious  pride.     From  tliem 

he  oft  resolves  • 

To  frame  he  knows  not  wliat  excel- 
ling things, 
And  win  he  knows  not  what  sublime 

reward 
Of  praise  and  wonder.     By  degrees 

the  mind 
Feels  her  young  nerves  dilate:  the 

plastic  powers 
Labor   for   action:    blind    emotions 

heave 
His  bosom;  and  with  loveliest  frenzy 

caught. 
From  earth  to  heaven  he  rolls  his 

daring  eye. 
From  heaven  to  earth.    Anon  ten 

thousand  shapes, 
L'ke  spectres  trooping  to  the  wiz- 
ard's call, 
Flit  sAvift  before   him.      From    the 

womb  of  earth, 
From  ocean's  bed  they  come:    the 

eternal  heavens 
Disclose    their    splendors,    and    thf 

dark  abyss 
Pours    out    her    births    unkno\ru 

With  fixed  gaze 
He  marks  the  rising  phantoms.  No\» 

compares 
Their  different  forms;   now  blends 

them,  now  divides; 
Enlarges  and  extenuates  by  turns; 
Opposes,  ranges  in  fantastic  bands, 
And  infinitely  varies.     Hither  now. 
Now  thither  fluctuates  his  inconstant 

aim, 


6 


AKEXSIDE. 


With  endless  choice  perplexed.  At 
length  his  plan 

jiegins  to  open.    Lucid  order  dawns ; 

And  as  from  Chaos  old  the  jarring 
seeds 

Of  nature  at  the  voice  divine  repaired 

Each  to  its  place,  till  rosy  earth  un- 
veiled 

Her  fragrant  bosom,  and  the  joyful 
sun 

Sprung  up  the  blue  serene;  by  swift 
degrees 

Thus  disentangled,  his  entire  design 

Emerges.  Colors  mingle,  features 
join. 

And  hues  converge :  the  fainter  parts 
retire ; 

The  fairer  eminent  in  light  advance  ; 

And  e^ry  image  on  its  neighbor 
smiles. 

Awhile  he  stands,  and  with  a  father's 
joy 

Contemplates.  Then  with  Prome- 
thean art 

Into  its  proper  vehicle  he  breathes 

The  fair  conception  which,  embodied 
thus, 

And  permanent,  becomes  to  eyes  or 
ears 

An  object  ascertained:  while  thus 
informed. 

The  various  objects  of  his  mimic 
skill, 

The  consonance  of  sounds,  the  feat- 
ured rock. 

The  shadowy  picture,  and  impas- 
sioned verse. 

Beyond  tLeir  proper  powers  attract 
the  soul 

By  that  expressive  semblance,  while 
in  sight 

Of  nature's  great  original  we  scan 

The  lively  child  of  art;  while  line  by 
line, 

And  feature  after  feature,  we  refer 

To  that  divine  exemplar  whence  it 
stole 

Those  animating  charms.  Thus 
beauty's  palm 

Betwixt  them  wavering  hangs:  ap- 
plauding love 

Doubts  where  to  choose;  and  mortal 
man  aspires 

To  tempt  creative  praise. 


[From  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination.'] 

RICHES   OF  A  MAN  OF  TASTE. 

What  though  not  all 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the 

heights 
Of  envied  life;  though  only  few  pos- 
sess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state ; 
Yet  nature's  care,  to  all  her  children 

just. 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler 

state, 
Endows,  at  large,  whatever  happy  man 
Will  deign   to  use  them.     His  the 

city's  pomp. 
The    rural    hoiiprs    his.      Whate'er 

adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and 

the  arch. 
The    breathing    marbles    and    the 

sculptured  gold, 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow 

claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him, 

the  Spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken 

gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds:  for  him,  the 

hand 
Of    Autumn     tinges    every    fertile 

branch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like 

the  morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from 

her  wings ; 
And    still    new    beauties    meet    his 

lonely  walk. 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Not  a 

breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud 

imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence,  not  a 

strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling 

shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can 

partake 
Fresh    pleasure    unreproved.      Nor 

thence  partakes 
Fresh  pleasure  only :  for  th'  attentive 

mind, 
By  this  harmonious  action  on   her 

powers, 


AKENSIDE. 


Becomes  herself  harmonious:  wont 
so  oft 

In  outwanl  things  to  meditate  the 
charm 

Of  sacred  order,  soon  slie  seeks  at 
home 

To  find  a  kindred  order  to  exert 

Within  herself  tliis  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspired  delight:  her  tem- 
per'd  powers 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion 
wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive 
mien. 


From  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination.'] 
MENTAL   BEAUTY, 

Thus  doth  beauty  dwell 

There  most  conspicuous,  e'en  in  out- 
ward shape. 

Where  dawns  the  high  expression  of 
a  mind : 

By  steps  conducting  our  enraptured 
search 

To  that  eternal  origin,  whose  power, 

Through  all  th'  unbounded  symme- 
try of  things. 

Like  rays  effulging  from  the  parent 
sun. 

This  endless  mixture  of  her  charms 
diffused. 

Mind,  mind  alone,  —  bear  witness, 
earth  and  heaven!  — 

The  living  fountains  in  itself  con- 
tains 

Of  beauteous  and  sublime :  here,  hand 
in  hand, 

Sit  paraniount  the  graces;  here  en- 
throned. 

Celestial  Venus,  with  divinest  airs. 

Invites  the  soul  to  never-fading  joy. 


[From  Pleasures  of  the  Imafjinafion.] 

ASPIRATIONS  AFTER   THE   INFI- 
NITE. 

Say,  why  was  man  so  eminently 

raised 
Amid  the  vast  creation;  why  ordain'd 
Through  life  an  I  death  to  dart  his 

piercing  eye, 


With  thoughts  beyond  the  limit  of 

his  frame; 
But  that  th'  Omnipotent  might  send 

him  forth 
In    sight    of    mortal  and    immortal 

powers, 
As  on  a  boundless  theatre,  to  nm 
The  great  career  of  justice;  to  exalt 
His  generous  aim  to  all  diviner  deeds ; 
To  chase  each  partial  purpose  from 

his  breast. 
And  through  the  mists  of  passion  and 

of  sense, 
And    through    the    tossing    tide    of 

chance  and  pain, 
To  hold  his  course  unfaltering,  while 

the  voice 
Of  truth  and  virtue,   up  the  steep 

ascent 
Of  nature,  calls  him  to  his  high  re- 
ward, 
Th'   applauding    smile    of    heaven? 

Else  wherefore  burns 
In  mortal   bosoms  this  unquenched 

hope, 
That  breathes  from  day  to  day  sub- 

limer  things, 
And    mocks    possession?    wherefore 

darts  the  mind, 
With  such  resistless  ardor,  to  embrace 
Majestic  forms;  impatient  to  be  free; 
Spurning  the  gross  control  of  wilful 

might; 
Proud  of  the  strong  contention  of 

her  toils; 
Proud  to  be  daring  ? 

For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker 

said. 
That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  de- 
light, 
Not  in  the  fading  echoes  of  renown, 
Power's  purple  robos,  nor  Pleasure's 

flowery  lap. 
The  soul  should  find  enjoyment :  but 

from  these 
Turning  disdainful  to  an  equal  good, 
Through  all  th'  ascent  of  things  en- 
large her  view. 
Till  every  bound  at  length   should 

disappear. 
And    infinite    perfection    close    the 


AKERMAN—  ALDUICH. 


Lucy   Evelina  Akerman. 


NOTHING   BUT  LEAVES. 

"He  found  nothing  thereon  but  leaves." 
Matt.  xxi.  19. 

Nothing    but    leaves;     the     spirit 
grieves 
Over  the  wasted  life: 
Sin  committed  while  conscience  slept, 
Promises  made  but  never  kept, 
Hatred,  battle,  strife; 
Nothing  but  leaves! 

Nothing    but    leaves;    no    garner'd 
sheaves 
Of  life's  fair,  ripen'd  grain; 
Words,  idle  words,  for  earnest  deeds ; 
We  sow  our  seeds  —  lo!    tares   and 
weeds ; 


We  reap  with  toil  and  pain 
Nothing  but  leaves ! 

Nothing  but  leaves ;  memory  weaves 

No  veil  to  screen  the  past : 
As  we  retrace  our  weary  way, 
Counting    each    lost    and    misspent 
day  — 
We  find,  sadly,  at  last, 
Nothing  but  leaves ! 

And  shall  we  meet  the  Master  so, 

Bearing  our  wither' d  leaves  ? 
The  Saviour  looks  for  perfect  fruit, — 
We    stand    before    him,    humbled, 
mute ; 
Waiting  the  words  he  breathes, — 
"  Nothing  but  leases ! " 


James  Aldrich. 

A  DEATH-BED. 


Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day ; 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  breathed  the  lomj,  loner  night 


away. 
In  statue-like 


repose. 


But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 
Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 

She  passed  through  Glory's  morning- 
gate. 
And  walked  in  Paradise ! 


Thomas   Bailey  Aldrich. 


THE  BALLAD    OF  BABIE  BELL. 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  w^orkl  of  ours? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of 
even, — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels 
go, 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 


She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers,  — 
those  feet 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels ! 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May, 
The  swallows  built  beneath  the 

eaves ; 
Like    sunlight    in    and  out  th* 
leaves, 
The  robins  went  the  livelong  day; 


ALDRICH. 


9 


The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling 

vine 
Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of 
wine. 

How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell! 

O,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds, 

And  opening  spring-tide  flowers, 

When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Came  to  this  world  of  ours ! 

O  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day! 

What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay: 
Those   deep    and  tender    twilight 
eyes, 
So  full  of    meaning,   pure   and 

bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more ; 
Ah,  never  in  oiu*  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born. 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen,  — 

The  land  beyond  the  mom. 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise,)  — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives. 
And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and 
pain. 
We  said,  Dear  Christ!  — Owe  hearts 
bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were 

white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she 

came, 
Were    rich    in     autumn's    mellow 

prime  : 
The   clustered    apples    burnt  like 

flame, 
The    soft-cheeked    peaches    blushed 

and  fell, 
The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 
The  grapes    hung  purpling    in   the 

grange : 
And  time  "wrought   just  as  ri^h   a 

change 

In  little  Babie  Beil. 


Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we   could 

trace. 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's 
face! 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 
We    thought    her    lovely  when   she 
came, 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now; 
Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame ! 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal, 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 
Whose  meaning    lay  beyond    our 
reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us. 
We  never  held  her  being's  key; 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things : 
She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees: 

We  saw  its  sha  lew  ere  it  fell, 

The  knowledge  that  om-  God  liad  sent 

His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 

We    shuddered    with     unlanguaged 

pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to 

fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  O,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God' 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  roo  . 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  te'^* 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 
Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Beil  I 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands ; 
And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell  ? 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands. 
She    only    looked  more   meek   and 

fair! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair : 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the    summer's  drifted 

snow,  — 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flow- 
ers! 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours  I 


10 


ALDRICH. 


DESTINY. 

Three  roses,  wan  as  moonlight  and 

weighed  down 
Each  with  its  loveliness  as  with  a 

crown, 
Drooped  in  a  florist's  window  in  a 

town. 

The  first  a  lover  bought.     It  lay  at 

rest, 
Like  flower  on  iV  wcr,  that  night,  on 

Beauty's  breast. 

The  second  rose,  as  virginal  and  fair. 
Shrunk  in  the  tangles  of  a  harlot's 
hair. 

The  third,  a  widow,  with  new  grief 

made  wild. 
Shut  in  the  icy  palm  of  her  dead 

child. 


AN  UNTIMELY  THOUGHT. 

I  WONDER  what  day  of  the  week  — 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year  — 
Will  it  be  midnight,  or  morning, 
And  who  will  bend  over  my  bier  ? 

—  What  a  hideous  fancy  to  come 
As  I  wait,  at  the  foot  of  the  stair, 
vVhile  Lilian  gives  the  last  touch 
To  her  robe,  or  the  rose  in  her  hair. 

Do  I  like  your  new  dress  —  pompa- 
dour ? 

And  do  I  like  you  f    On  my  life, 

You.  are  eighteen,  and  not  a  day 
more. 

And  have  not  been  six  years  my  wife. 

Those  two  rosy  boys  in  the  crib 
Up  stairs  are  not  ours,  to  be  sure !  — 
You  are  just  a  sweet  bride  in  her 

bloom, 
All  sunshine,  and  snowy,  and  pure. 

As  the  carriage  rolls  down  the  dark 

street 
'^he    little  wife    laughs  and  makes 

"heer: 


But  ...  I  wonder  what  day  of  the 

week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year. 


NAMELESS  PAIN. 

In  ray  nostrils  the  summer  wind 
Blows  the  exquisite  scent  of  the  rose! 
O  for  the  golden,  golden  wind. 
Breaking  the  buds  as  it  goes, 
Breaking  the  buds,  and  bending  the 

grass. 
And  spilling  the  scent  of  the  rose ! 

0  wind  of  the  summer  morn, 
Tearing  the  petals  in  twain. 
Wafting  the  fragrant  soul 

Of  the  rose  through  valley  and  plain, 

1  would  you  could  tear  my  heart  to- 

day, 
And  scatter  its  nameless  pain. 


UNSUNG. 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes 
From  the  lips  of  the  white  rose, 
As  weird  as  the  elfin  lights 
That  glimmer  of  frosty  nights. 
As  wild  as  the  winds  that  tear 
The  curled  red  leaf  in  the  air. 
Is  the  song  1  have  never  sung. 

In  slumber,  a  hundred  times 

I  have  said  the  mystic  rhymes, 

But  ere  I  open  my  eyes 

This  ghost  of  a  poem  flies; 

Of  the  interfluent  strains 

Not  even  a  note  remains : 

I  know  by  my  pulses'  beat 

It  was  something  wild  and  sweet, 

And  my  heart  is  strangely  stirred 

By  an  unremembered  word ! 

I  strive,  but  I  strive  in  vain, 
To  recall  the  lost  refrain. 
On  some  miraculous  day 
Perhaps  it  will  come  and  stay; 
In  some  unimagined  Spring 
1  may  find  my  voice,  and  sing 
The  song  I  have  never  sung. 


ALDEICH. 


n 


RENCONTRE. 

ToiLixG  across  the  Mer  de  Glace 
I  thought  of,  longed  for  thee ; 
What   miles    between  us    stretched, 

alas! 
What  miles  of  land  and  sea ! 

My  foe,  undreamed  of,  at  my  side 
Stood  suddenly,  like  Fate. 
For  those  who  love,  the  world  is  wide. 
But  not  for  those  who  hate. 


THE  FADED    VIOLET. 

What  thought  is  folded  in  thy  leaves ! 
What  tender  thought,  what  speech- 
less pain! 
I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine. 
Thou  darling  of  the  April  rain ! 

I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Though  scent  and  azure  tint  are  fled — 

0  dry,  mute  lips !  ye  are  the  type 
Of  something  in  me  cold  and  dead ; 

Of  something  wilted  like  thy  leaves; 
Of  fragrance  flown,  of  beauty  dim ; 
Yet,  for  the  love  of  those  white  hands. 
That  found  thee  by  a  river's  brim  — 

That    found    thee  when    thy   dewy 

mouth 
Was  purpled  as  with  stains  of  wine  — 
For  love  of  her  who  love  forgot, 

1  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine. 

That  thou  shouldst  live  when  I  am 

dead, 
Wlien    hate    is  dead,  for   me,   and 

wrong. 
For  this,  I  use  my  subtlest  art. 
For  this,  I  fold  thee  in  my  song. 


AFTER   THE  RAIN. 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 


From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely-carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  globe  of  gold,  a  disc,  a  speck: 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


PURSUIT  AND   POSSESSION. 

When  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  Pui 

suit, 
WTiat  life,  what  glorious  eagernesa 

it  is; 
Then  mark  how  full  Possession  falls 

from  this. 
How  fairer  seems  the  blossom  than 

the  fruit  — 
I  am  perplext,   and   often  stricken 

mute 
Wondering  which  attained  the  higher 

bliss. 
The  winged  insect,  or  the  chrysalis 
It  thrust  aside  with  unreluctant  foot. 
Spirit  of  verse  that  still  elud'st  my 

art, 
Thou  aiiy  phantom  that  dost  ever 

haunt  me, 
O  never,  never  rest  upon  my  heart. 
If  when  I  have  thee  I  shall  little  want 

thee ! 
Still  flit  away  in  moonlight,  rain,  and 

dew. 
Will-o'-the-wisp,    that    I    may    still 

pursue ! 


SLEEP. 


When  to  soft  Sleep  we  give  ourselves 
away, 

And  in  a  dream  as  in  a  fairy  bark 

Drift  on  and  on  through  the  en- 
chanted dark 

To  purple  daybreak  —  little  thought 
w^e  pay 

To  that  sweet  bitter  world  we  know 
by  day. 

We  are  clean  quit  of  it,  as  is  a  lark 

So  high  in  heaven  no  human  eye  may 
mark 


12 


ALDRICH  —  ALEXANDER. 


The 


cleavins 


thin     swift     pinion 

through  the  gray. 
Till  we  awake  ill  fate  can  do  no  ill 
The  resting  heart  shall  not  take  up 

again 
The  heavy  load  that  yet  must  make 

it  bleed; 
For  this  brief  space  the  loud  world's 

voice  is  still, 
No  faintest  echo  of  it  brings  us  pain. 
How  will  it  be  when  we  shall  sleep 

indeed  ? 


MASKS. 

Black  Tragedy  lets  slip  her  grim  dis- 
guise 

And  shows  you  laughing  lips  and 
roguish  eyes ; 

But  when,  unmasked,  gay  Comedy 
appears, 

How  wan  her  cheeks  are,  and  what 
heavy  tears ! 


THE  nOSE. 

Fixed  to  her  necklace,  like  another 

gem, 
^  rose  she  wore  —  the  flower  June 

made  for  her ; 


Fairer  it  looked  than  when  upon  the 

stem. 
And  must,  indeed,  have  been  much 

happier. 


MAPLE  LEAVES. 

October  turned  my  maple's  leaves  to 

gold; 
The  most  are  gone  now;   here  and 

there  one  lingers ; 
Soon  these  will    slip  from  out  the 

twigs'  weak  hold, 
Like  coins  between  a  dying  miser's 

fingers. 


TO  ANY  POET. 

Out  of  the  thousand  verses  you  have 

writ. 
If  Time  spare  none,  you  will  not  care 

at  all ; 
If  Time  spare  one,  you  will  not  know 

of  it: 
Nor    shame    nor    fame  can  scale  a 

churchyard  wall. 


Cecil  Frances  Alexander. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

•♦  And  he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the 
land  of  Moab,  over  against  Beth-peor;  but 
no  man  knoweth  of  bis  sepulchre  unto 
this  day." 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave. 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 
And  no  man  knows  that  sepulchre. 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the 
sod 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 


That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  pass'd  on  earth; 
But  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth  — 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  back  when  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean' 
cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun. 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 
Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves. 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Open  their  thousand  leaves ; 

So  without  sound  of  music, 
Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 


ALFOUD. 


18 


Silently  down  from  the  mountain's 
crown 
The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  hald  old  eagle 

On  grey  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  lonely  eyrie 

Look'd  on  the  wondrous  sight; 
Perchance  the  lion  stalking, 
Still  shuns  that  hallow'd  spot, 
or  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and 

heard 
That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war. 
With    arms    reversed    and    muffled 
drum. 

Follow  his  funeral  car; 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won, 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless 
steed, 

While  peals  the  minute  gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

We  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  bard  an  honor'd  place. 

With  costly  marble  drest. 
In  the  great  minster  transept 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  organ  rings,  and  the  sweet 
choir  sings 

Along  the  emblazon' d  wall. 

This  was  the  tniest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword, 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word ; 


And  never  earth's  philosopher 
Traced,  with  his  golden  pen^ 

On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so 
sage 
As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor, — 

The  hillside  for  a  pall. 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall. 
And  the  dark  rock-pines  like  tossing 
plumes. 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely 
land. 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave  ? 

In   that    strange    grave    without    a 
name. 
Whence  his  uncoffin'd  clay 
Shall     break    again,     O    wondrous 
thought ! 
Before  the  Judgment  Day, 
And  stand  with  gloiy  wrapt  around 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won 
our  life 
With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 

O  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land ! 

O  dark  Beth-peor's  hill! 
Speak  to  these    curious   hearts    of 
ours. 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  hiddt* 
sleep 

Of  him  He  loved  so  well. 


Henry 

THE  AGED  OAK  AT  OAKLEY. 

I  WAS  a  yoimg  fair  tree ; 
Each  spring  with  quivering  green 
iviy  boughs  were  clad;  and" far 
Down  the  deep  vale  a  light 
V'hone  from  me  on  the  eyes 
Of  those  who  pass'd, — a  light 


Alford. 

T!\\r.c  told  of  sunny  days. 
And  blossoms,  and  blue  sky; 
For  1  was  ever  first 
Of  all  the  grove  to  hear 
The  soft  voice  under  ground 
Of  the  warm- working  spring; 
And  ere  my  brethren  stirr'd 
Their  sheathed  bud,  the  kine, 


14 


ALLEN. 


And  the  kine's  keeper,  came 

And  scanty  leafage  serve 

fclow  up  the  valley  path, 

No  high  behest;  my  name 

And  laid  them  underneath 

Is  sounded  far  and  wide; 

My  cool  and  rustling  leaves; 

And  in  the  Providence 

And  I  could  feel  them  there 

That  guides  the  steps  of  men, 

As  in  the  quiet  shade 

Hundreds  have  come  to  view 

They  stood  with  tender  thoughts, 

My  grandeur  in  decay ; 

That  passed  along  their  life 

And  there  hath  pass'd  from  me 

Like  wings  on  a  still  lake, 

A  quiet  influence 

Blessing  me;  and  to  God, 

Into  the  minds  of  men: 

The  blessed  God,  who  cares 

The  silver  head  of  age, 

For  all  my  little  leaves, 

The  majesty  of  laws, 

Went  up  the  silent  praise; 

The  very  name  of  God, 

And  I  was  glad  with  joy 

And  holiest  things  that  are 

Which  life  of  laboring  things 

Have  won  upon  the  heart 

111  knows, —  the  joy  that  sinks  — 

Of  humankind  the  more, 

Into  a  life  of  rest. 

For  that  I  stand  to  meet 

Ages  have  fled  since  then: 

With  vast  and  bleaching  trunk, 

But  deem  not  my  pierced  trunk 

The  rudeness  of  the  sky. 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


ENDURANCE. 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and 
yet  not  break ! 
How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer, 
and  not  die ! 
I  question  much  if  any  pain  or  ache 
Of   soul  or  body  brings  our  end 
more  nigh ; 
Death  chooses  his  own  time ;  till  that 
is  sworn, 
All  evils  may  be  borne. 

We  shrink  and  shudder  at  the  sur- 
geon's knife, 
Each  nerve  recoiling  from  the  cruel 
steel 
W^hose  edge  seems  searching  for  the 
quivering  life, 
Yet  to  our  sense  the  bitter  pangs 
reveal, 
That  still,   although    the  trembling 
flesh  be  torn. 
This  also  can  be  borne. 

We  see  a  sorrow  rising  in  our  way. 
And  try  to  flee  from  the  approach- 
ing ill; 

We  seek  some  small  escape ;  we  weep 
and  pray; 


But  when  the  blow  falls,  then  our 
hearts  are  still ; 
Not  that  the  pain  is  of  its  sharpness 
shorn. 
But  that  it  can  be  borne. 

We  wind  our  life  about  another  life; 
We  hold  it  closer,  dearer  than  our 
own : 
Anon  it  faints  and  fails  in  deathly 
strife. 
Leaving  us  stunned,  and  stricken, 
and  alone ; 
But  ah !  we  do  not  die  with  those  we 
mourn,  — 

This  also  can  be  borne. 

Behold,  we  live  through  all  things,  — 
famine,  thirst, 
Bereavement,  pain;    all  grief  and 
misery. 
Ail  woe  and  sorrow;  life  inflicts  its 
worst 
On  soul  and  body,  —  but  we  cannot 
die. 
Though  we  be  sick,  and  tired,  and 
faint  and  worn,  — 
Lo,  all  thinars  can  be  borne! 


ALLEN. 


16 


WHERE   THE  ROSES  GREW. 

This  is  where  the  roses  grew, 
In  the  summer  that  is  gone; 

Fairer  hloom  or  richer  line 
Never  summer  shone  upon : 

O,  the  glories  vanished  hence! 

O,  the  sad  imperfect  tense ! 

This  is  where  the  roses  grew 
When  tlie  July  days  were  long,  — 

When  the  garden  all  day  through 
Echoed  with  delight  and  song;  — 

Hark!  the  dead  and  broken  stalks 

Eddying  down  the  windy  walks ! 

Never  was  a  desert  waste, 
Where  no  blossom-life  is  born, 

Half  so  dreary  and  unblest, 
Half  so  lonesome  and  forlorn, 

Since  in  this  we  dimly  see 

All  the  bliss  that  used  to  be. 

Where  the  roses  used  to  grow! 

And  the  west-wind's  wailing  words 
Tell  in  whispers  faint  and  low 

Of  the  famished  humming-birds,  — 
Of  the  bees  which  search  in  vain 
For  the  honey-cells  again ! 

This  is  where  the  roses  grew, 
Till  the  ground  was  all  perfume, 

And,  whenever  zephyrs  blew, 
Carpeted  with  crimson  bloom! 

Now  the  chill  and  scentless  air, 

Sv/eeps  the  flower-plats  brown  and 
bare. 

Hearts  have  gardens  sad  as  this. 
Where  the  roses  bloom  no  more,  — 

Gardens  where  no  summer  bliss 
Can  the  summer  bloom  restore,  — 

Where  the  snow  melts  not  away 

At  the  yvarming  kiss  of  May ;  — 

Gardens  where  the  vernal  moms 
Never  shed  their  sunshine  down,  — 

IVhere  are  only  stems  and  thorns, 
Veiled  in  dead  leaves,  curled  and 
brown,  — 

Gardens  where  we  only  see 

Where  the  roses  used  to  be  ^ 


LAST. 

Fkiend,  whose  smile  has  come  to  be 

Very  precious  unto  me, 

Though  I  kixow  1  drank  not  firsf , 
Of  your  love's  bright  fountain- 
burst. 

Yet  I  grieve  no*  for  the  past, 

So  you  only  love  me  last! 

Other  souls  may  find  their  joy 
In  the  blind  love  of  a  boy : 

Give  me  that  which  years  have 
tried. 

Disciplined  and  purified,  — 
Such  as,  braving  sun  and  blast 
You  will  bring  to  me  at  last ! 

There  are  brows  more  fair  than  mine, 
Eyes  of  more  bewitching  shine, 
Other  hearts  more  fit,  in  truth. 
For  the  passion  of  your  youth ; 
But,  their  transient  empire  past. 
You  will  surely  love  me  last! 

Wing  away  your  summer  time, 

Find  a  love  in  every  clime. 

Roam  in  liberty  and  light,  — 
I  shall  never  stay  your  flight," 

For  I  know,  when  all  is  past. 

You  will  come  to  me  at  last ! 

Change  and  flutter  as  you  will, 

1  shall  smile  securely  still; 
Patiently  I  tmst  and  wait 
Though  you  tarry  long  and  late; 

Trize  your  spring  till  it  be  past, 

Only,  only  love  me  last! 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEE?. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time, 
:n  your  flight, 

Make  irc  a  child  again  just  for  to- 
night! 

Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless 
shore. 

Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of 
yore; 


X6 


ALLEN. 


Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows 

of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of 

my  hah-; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch 

keep; 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me 

to  sleep ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of 
the  years ! 

I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears,  — 

Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in 
vain,  — 

Take  them,  and  give  me  my  child- 
hood again! 

I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  de- 
cay,— 

Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth 
away; 

Weaiy  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap ;  — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, —  rock 
me  to  sleep ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the 
untrue. 

Mother,  O  mother,  my  heart  calls  for 
you! 

Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown 
green. 

Blossomed  and  faded,  our  faces  be- 
tween : 

Yet,  witli  strong  yearning  and  pas- 
sionate pain, 

Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence 
again. 

Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so 
deep ; — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me 
to  sleep ! 

Over  my  heart  in  the  days  that  are 
flown, 

No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has 
shone ; 

No  other  worship  abides  and  en- 
dures, — 

Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like 
yours : 

None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away 
pain 

From  tlie  sick  soul  and  the  world- 
weary  brain. 


Slumber's  soft  calm  o'er  my  heavy 

lids  creep ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me 

to  sleep ! 

Come,    let    your   brown    hair,    just 

lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of 

old; 
Let  it   drop   over   my  forehead  to- 
night. 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  f i-om  the 

light; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged    shadows 

once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweel  visions 

of  yore  ;• 
Lovingly,   softly,   its  bright  billows 

sweep ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me 

to  sleep ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have 
been  long 

Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song: 

Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall 
seem 

Womanhood's  years  have  been  only 
a  dream. 

Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  em- 
brace, 

With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping 
my  face. 

Never  hereafter  to  w^ake  or  to  weep ;  — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me 
to  sleep ! 


UNTIL  DEATH. 

Make  me  no  vows  of  constancy,  dear 
friend, 
To  love  me,  though  I  die,  thy  whole 
life  long, 
And  love  no  other  till  thy  days  shall 
end  ; 
Nay,  it  were  rash  and  wrong. 

If  thou  canst  love  another,  be  it  so ; 
I  would  not  reach  out  of  my  quiet 
grave 
To  bind  thy  heart,  if  it  should  choose 
togo:  — 
Love  should  not  be  a  slave. 


ALLEN. 


17 


My  placid  ghost,  1  trust,  will  walk 
serene 
In  clearer  light  than  gilds  those 
earthly  morns. 
Above    the    jealousies    and    envies 
keen 
Wliich  sow  this  life  with  thorns. 

Thou  wculdst  not  feel  my  shadowy 
caress, 
If,  after  death,  my  soul  should  lin- 
ger here; 
Men's    hearts  crave   tangible,   close 
tenderness, 
Love's  presence,  warm  and  near. 

It  would  not  make  me  sleep  more 
peacefully 
That  thou  wert  wastmg  all  thy  life 
in  woe 
For  my  poor  sake;  what  love  thou 
hast  for  me, 
Bestow  it  ere  I  go ! 

Carve  not  upon  a  stone  when  I  am 
dead 
The      praises     which    remorseful 
mourners  give 
To  women's  graves,  —  a  tardy  recom- 
pense, — 
But  speak  them  while  I  live. 

Heap  not  the  heavy  marble  on  my 
head 
To  shut  away  the  sunshine  and  the 
dew; 
Let  small  blooms  grow  there,  and  let 
grasses  wave. 
And  rain-drops  filter  through. 

Thou  wilt  meet  many  fairer  and  more 
gay 
Than  I;  but,  trust  me,  thou  canst 
never  find 
One  who  will   love  and  serve  thee 
night  and  day 
With  a  more  single  mind. 

Forget  me  when  T  die !    The  violets 
Above  my  breast  will  blossom  just 
as  blue, 
^^or  miss  thy  tears  ;  e'en    Nature's 
self  forgets;  — 
But  while" I  live,  be  true! 


E  VER  Y  DA  Y. 

O,  TRIFLING  tasks  SO  often  done, 

Yet  ever -to  be  done  anew! 
O,  cares  which  come  with  every  sun, 
Morn  after  morn,  the  long  years 
through ! 
We    shrink     beneath    their    paltry 

sway,  — 
The  irksome  calls  of  every  day. 

The  restless  sense  of  wasted  power. 
The  tiresome  round  of  little  things. 

Are  hard  to  bear,  as  hour  by  hour 
Its  tedious  iteration  brings; 

Who  shall  evade  or  who  delay 

The  small  demands  of  every  day  ? 

The  boulder  in  the  torrent's  course 

By  tide  and  tempest  lashed  in  vain, 
Obeys    the     wave-whirled    pebble's 
force. 
And  yields  its  substance  grain  by 
grain ; 
So  crumble  strongest  lives  away 
Beneath  the  wear  of  every  day. 

Who  finds  the  lion  in  his  lair. 
Who  tracks  the  tiger  for  his  life. 

May  wound  them  ere  they  are  aware. 
Or    conquer    them    in    desperate 
strife ; 

Yet  powerless  he  to  scathe  or  slay 

The  vexing  gnats  of  every  day. 

The  steady  strain  that  never  stops 
Is  mightier  than  the  fiercest  shock; 

The  constant  fall  of  water-drops 
Will  groove  the  adamantine  rock; 

We  feel  our  noblest  powers  decay. 

In  feeble  wars  with  every  day. 

We  rise  to  meet  a  heavy  blow  — 
Our  souls  a  sudden  bravery  fills  — 

But  we  endure  not  always  so 
The  drop-by-drop  of  little  ills! 

We  still  deplore  and  still  obey 

The  hard  behests  of  every  day. 

The  heart  which  boldly  faces  death 
Upon  the  battle-field,  and  dares 

Cannon  and  bayonet,  faints  beneatt\ 
The  needle-points  of  frets  and  cares; 

'''he  stoutest  spirits  they  dismay  — 

The  tiny  stings  of  every  day. 


18 


ALLINGHAM. 


And  even  saints  of  holy  fame, 
Whose  souls  by  faith  have  over- 
come, 

Who  wore  amid  the  cruel'  flame 
The  molten  crown  of  martyrdom, 

Bore  not  without  complaint  alway 

The  petty  pains  of  every  day. 


Ah !  more  than  martyr's  aureole, 
And    more   than  hero's  heart   of 
fire, 

We  need  the  humble  strength  of  soul 
Which  daily  toils  and  ills  require;  — 

Sweet  Patience !  grant  us,  if  you  may, 

An  added  grace  for  every  day. 


William  Allingham. 


THE   TOUCHSTONE. 

A  MAN  there  came,   whence    none 
could  tell, 

Bearing  a  touchstone  in  his  hand ; 

And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 
By  its  unerring  spell. 

Quick  birth  of  transmutation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fair; 
Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 

Nor  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 
Were  many  changed  to  chii)s  and 

clods, 
And  even  statues  of  the  gods 

Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 

Then  angrily  the  people  cried, 
"  The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far; 


Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are; 
We  will  not  have  them  tried." 

And  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  this  unrelenting  guest, 
They  seized  him,  saying,  "  Let  him 
test 

How  real  is  our  jail!" 

But,  though  they  slew  him  with  the 
sword. 
And  in  a  fire  his  touchstone  burned, 
Its  doings  could  not  be  o'erturned, 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm. 
They    strewed    its    ashes    on    the 

breeze ; 
They  little  guessed  each  grain  of 
these 
Conveyed  the  perfect  chann. 


AUTUMNAL  SONNET. 

Now  Autumn's  fire  burns  slowly  along  the  woods, 

And  day  by  day  the  dead  leaves  fall  and  melt, 

And  night  by  night  the  monitory  blast 

Wails  in  the  keyhole,  telling  how  it  passed 

O'er  empty  fields,  or  upland  solitudes. 

Or  grim,  wide  wave;  and  now  the  power  is  felt 

Of  melancholy,  tenderer  in  its  moods 

Than  any  joy  indulgent  Summer  dealt. 

Dear  friends,  together  in  the  glimmering  eve, 

Pensive  and  glad,  with  tones  that  recognize 

The  soft  invisible  dew  in  each  one's  eyes, 

It  may  be,  somewhat  thus  we  shall  have  leave 

To  walk  with  Memory,  Avhen  distant  lies 

Poor  i^avth,  where  we  were  wont  to  live  and  grieve. 


ALLSTON  —  APPLETON. 


19 


Washington   Allston. 


BO  VflOOD. 


All,  tlien  bow  sweetly  closed  those 

crowded  days! 
The  minutes  parting  one  by  one  like 
rays. 
That  fade  upon  a  summer's  eve. 
But  oh!    what   charm,   or    magic 

numbers 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slum- 
bers 


Those    weary,    hai^py    days    did 

leave? 
When  by  my  bed  1  saw  my  mother 

kneel. 
And    with    her    blessing    took    her 

nightly  kiss; 
Whatever  Time  destroys,  he  cannot 

this  — 
E'en  now  that  nameless  kiss  I  feel. 


Thomas  Gold  Appleton. 


TO  ROUSE,  THE  ARTIST. 

As  when  in  watches  of  the  night  we 
see, 

Hanging  in  trenmlous  beauty  o'er 
the  bed, 

The  face  we  loved  on  Earth,  now 
from  us  fled; 

So  wan,  so  sweet,  so  spiritually 
free 

From  taint  of  Earth,  thy  tender 
drawings  be. 

There  we  niay  find  a  friend  remem- 
bered ; 

With  a  new  aureole  hovering  roimd 
the  head. 

Given  by  Art's  peaceful  immortal- 
ity. 

How  many  hon^es  lialf  empty  fill  the 
place 

Death  vacates,  with  thy  gracious  sub- 
stitutes! 

Not  sensuous  with  color,  which  may 
disgrace 

The  memoiy  of  the  body  shared  with 
brutes ; 

But  the  essential  spirit  in  the 
face; 

As  angels  see  us,  best,  Affection 
suits. 


TO    WILLIAM  LLOYD    GARRISON, 
AFTER   THE    WAR. 

Oh!  liappiest  thou,  who  from  the 

shining  height, 
Of  tablelands  serene  can  look  below 
Wliere  glared  the  tempest,  and  the 

lightning's  glow. 
And  see  thy  seed  made  han'est  wave 

in  light, 
And    all    the    darkened    land    with 

God's  smile  bright! 
Leaving  witli  him  the  issue.  Enough 

to  know 
Albeit  the  sword  hath  sundered  broth- 
ers so. 
Yet  God's    vicegerent  ever    is    the 

Right. 
Nor  will  he  leave  us  bleeding,  but 

his  Time 
Whicli  healeth  all  things  will   our 

wounds  make  whole. 
While  washed  and  cleansed  of  our 

fraternal  crime, 
Freexlom  shall  count  again  her  starry 

roll; 
All  there,  and   moving  with  a  step 

sublime 
To  music  God  sounds  in  the  human 

soul. 


2© 


ARNOLD. 


Edwin   Arnold. 


SHE  AND   }IE. 

"She  Is  dead!"   thoy  said  to  him. 

"Conio  away; 
Kiss  her!  and  leave  her!  —  thy  love 

is  clay!" 

They  smoothed  her  trusses  of  dark 

brown  hair; 
On  her  forehead  of  marble  they  laid 
.  it  fair: 

Over    her    eyes,    which    gazed    too 

much. 
They  drew   the   lids  with  a  gentle 

touch ; 

With  a  tender  touch  they  closed  up 

well 
The  sweet  thin  lips  that  had  secrets 

to  tell; 

About  her  brows,  and  her  dear,  pale 
face 

They  tied  her  veil  and  her  marriage- 
lace; 

And  drew   on    her  white    feet  her 

white  silk  shoes;  — 
Which  were  the  whiter  no  eye  could 

choose ! 

And  over  her  bosom   they  crossed 

her  hands; 
"Come  away,"    they  said,  —  "God 

understands!" 

And  then  there  was  Silence;  —  and 

nothing  there 
But    the    Silence  —  and    scents    of 

eglantere, 

And  jasmine,  and  roses,  and  rose- 

mai7; 
For  they  said,  "As  a  lady  should  lie, 

lies  she!" 

And  they  held  their  breath  as  they 
left  the  room, 

With  a  shudder  to  glance  at  its  still- 
ness and  gloom. 


Cut  he  —  who  loved  her  too  well  to 

dread 
The  sweet,  the  stately,  the  beautiful 

dead, — 

He  lit  his  lamp,  and  took  the  key. 
And  turuM   it!  —  Alone  again  — he 
and  she! 

lie  and  she;  but  she  would  not  speak, 
Though  he  kissM,  in  the  old  place, 
the  quiet  cheek; 

He  and  she;  yet  she  would  not  smile. 
Though  he  call'd  her  the  name  that 
was  fondest  erewhile. 

He  and  she;  and  she  did  not  move 
To  any  one  passionate  whisper  of  love ! 

Then  he  said,  "  Cold  lips!  and  breast 

without  breath! 
Is  there  no  voice  ?  —  no  language  of 

death 

"Dumb  to  the  ear  and  still  to  the 

sense. 
But  to  heart  and  to  soul  distinct, — 

intense  ? 

"See,  no"w% — 1  listen  with  soul,  not 

ear  — 
What  was  the  secret  of  dying,  Dear  ? 

"  Was  it  the  infinite  wonder  of  all. 
That  you  ever  could  let  life's  flower 
fall  ? 

"  Or  was  it  a  greater  marvel  to  feel 
The  perfect    calm    o'er   the    agony 
steal  ? 

"  Was  the  miracle  greatest  to  find 

how  deep. 
Beyond  all  dreams,  sank  downward 

that  sleep  ? 

"Did  life  roll  backward  its  record, 

Dear, 
And  show,  as  they  say  it  does,  pasJ 

thinscs  clear  ? 


ARNOLD. 


n 


"And  was  it  the  innemiost  heart  of 

the  bliss 
To  find  out  so  what  a  wisdom  love  is  ? 

**Oh,  perfect  Dead!  oh,  Dead  most 

deaj-, 
1  hold  the  breath  of  my  soul  to  hear; 

"  1  listen  —  as  deep  as  to  horrible 

hell, 
As  high  as  to  heaven! — and  you  do 

not  tell! 

"There  must  be  pleasures  in  dying, 

Sweet, 
To  make  you  so  placid  from  head  to 

feet! 

"  I  would  tell  2/o«,  Darling,  if  I  were 

dead, 
And  'tAvere  your  hot  tears  upon  viy 

brow  shed. 

"I  would  say,  though  the  angel  of 

death  had  laid 
His  sword  on  my  lips  to  keep  it  unsaid. 

"F()«   should  not  ask,  vainly,  with 

streaming  eyes. 
Which   in    Death's    touch  was    the 

chiefest  surprise ; 

*'  The  very  strangest  and  suddenest 

thing 
Of  all  the  surprises  that  dying  must 

bring." 

All!  foolish  world!  Oh!  most  kind 

Dead ! 
Though  he  told  me,  who  will  believe 

it  was  said? 

^^^lo  wiU  believe  that  he  heard  her 

say, 
With  the  soft  rich  voice,  in  the  dear 

old  way:  — 

"The  utmost  wonder  is  this. — I  hear. 
And  see  you,  and  love  you,  and  kiss 
you,  Dear; 

"I  can  speak,  now  you  hsten  with 

soul  alone; 
If  your  soul  could  see,  it  would  all 

be  shown. 


"AVhat  a  strange  delicious  amaze- 
ment is  Death, 

To  be  without  body  and  breathe 
without  breath. 

"I  should  laugh  for  joy  if  yon  did 

not  cry; 
Oh,  listen!  Love  lasts!  —  Love  never 

will  die. 

"I  am  only  your  Angel  who  was  your 

Bride ; 
And  1  know,  that  though  dead,  I 

have  never  died.'' 


AFTER  DEATH  IN  ARABIA, 

He  who  died  at  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  his  friends: 

Faithful  friends!    It  lies,  I  know, 
Pale  and  white  and  cold  as  snow; 
And  ye  say,  "  Abdallah's  dead!" 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  head, 
I  can  eee  your  falling  tears, 
1  can  hear  your  sighs  and  prayers; 
Yet  I  smile  and  whisper  this, — 
"  /  am  not  the  thing  you  kiss; 
Cease  your  tears,  and  let  it  lie; 
It  was  mine,  it  is  not  I." 

Sweet  friends!  What  the  women  lave 
For  its  last  bed  of  the  grave, 
Is  a  tent  which  I  am  quitting. 
Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 
Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last. 
Like  a  hawk  my  soul  hath  passed. 
Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room, — 
The    wearer,    not    the    garb,  —  the 

plume 
Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bars 
Which  kept  him  from  these  splendid 

stars. 

Loving  friends!    Be  wise  and  diy 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye, — 
What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear. 
'Tis  an  empty  sea-shell, —  one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  is  gone : 
The  shell  is  broken,  it  lies  there; 
The  pearl,  the  all,  the  soul,  is  here. 


22 


ARNOLD. 


'Tis  an  earthen  jar,  whose  lid 
Allah  sealed,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 
A  mind  that  loved  him;  let  it  lie! 
Let  the  shard  be  earth's  once  more, 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  his  store ! 

Allah  glorious !    Allah  good ! 
Now  thy  world  is  vmderstood; 
Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends ; 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends. 
While  the  man  whom  ye  call  dead, 
In  unspoken  bliss,  instead, 
Lives  and  loves  you;  lost,  'tis  true. 
By  such  light  as  shines  for  you; 
But  in  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  unfulfilled  felicity,— 
In  enlarging  paradise, 
Ijives  a  lifethat  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends!  Yet  not  farewell; 
Where  I  am,  ye,  too,  shall  dwell. 
I  am  gone  before  your  face, 
A  moment's  time,  a  little  space. 
When  ye  come  where  1  have  stepped 
Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept; 
Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught. 
That  here  is  all,  and  there  is  naught. 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain, — 
Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain ; 
Only  not  at  death, —  for  death. 
Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  om-  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life,  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 

Be  ye  certain  all  seems  love, 
Viewed  from  Allah's  throne  above; 
Be  ye  stout  of  heart,  and  come 
Bravely  onward  to  your  home! 
La  Allah  ilia  Allah!  yea! 
Thou  love  divine!    Thou  love  alway! 


He  that  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave. 


FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE. 

If  on  this  verse  of  mine 
Those  eyes  shall  ever  shine. 
Whereto    sore-wounded    men    have 

looked  for  life, 
Think  not  that  for  a  rhyme, 
Nor  yet  to  fit  the  time, 
I  name  thy  name, —  true  victor  in 

this  strife! 
But  let  it  serve  to  say 
That,  when  we  kneel  to  pray. 
Prayers  rise  for  thee  thine  ear  shall 

never  know; 
And  that  thy  gallant  deed, 
For  God,  and  for  our  need, 
Is  in  all  hearts,  as  deep  as  love  can 

go. 

'Tis  good  that  thy  name  springs 
From  two  of  Earth's  fair  things  — 
A  stately  city  and  a  soft- voiced  bird ; 
'Tis  well  that  in  all  homes. 
When  thy  sweet  story  comes. 
And  brave  eyes  fill  —  that  pleasant 

sounds  be  heard. 
Oh  voice!  in  night  of  fear, 
As  night's  bird, "soft  to  hear, 
Oh  great  heart !  raised  like  city  on  a 

hill ; 
Oh  watcher!  worn  and  pale, 
Good  Florence  Nightingale, 
Thanks,  loving  thanks,  for  thy  largo 

work  and  will ! 
England  is  glad  of  thee  — 
Christ,  for  thy  charity. 
Take  thee  to  joy  when  hand  and 

heart  are  still! 


ARNOLD. 


23 


George  Arnold. 


IN  THE  DARK. 

(The  author's  last  poem,  written  a  few 
days  belore  his  death.] 

All    moveless    stand    the   ancient 
cedar-trees 
Along  the  drifted  sand-hills  where 
they  grow ; 
And  from  the  darkness  comes  a  wan- 
dering breeze. 
And  waves  them  to  and  fro. 

A  murky  darkness    lies   along    the 
sand, 
When  bright  the  sunbeams  of  the 
morning  shone, 
And  the  eye  vainly  seeks  by  sea  and 
land 
Some  light  to  rest  upon. 

No  large,  pale  star  its  glimmering 
vigil  keeps; 
An  inky  sea  reflects  an  inky  sky; 
And  the  dark  river,  like  a  serpent, 
creeps 
To  where  its  black  piers  lie. 

Strange  salty  odors  through  the  dark- 
ness steal. 
And  through  the  dark,  the  ocean- 
thunders  roll; 
Thick  darkness  gathers,  stifling,  till 
I  feel 
Its  weight  upon  my  soul. 

I  stretch  ray  hands  out  in  the  empty 
air; 
I  strain  my  eyes  into  the  heavy 
night ; 
Blackness    of     darkness! — Father, 
hear  my  prayer! 
Grant  me  to  see  the  light! 


CUI  BOKO? 

A  HARMLESS  fellow,  Wasting  useless 
days, 
Am  I:  I  love  my  comfort  and  my 
leism*e ; 


Let  those  who  wish  them  toil   for 

goKl  and  praise; 
To  me  the  summer-day  brings  more 

of  pleasure. 

So,  here  upon  the  grass,  I  He  at  ease, 
While  solemn  voices  from  the  Past 
are  calling. 
Mingled  with  rustling  whispers  in  the 
trees, 
And  pleasant  sounds  of  water  idly 
falling. 


There  was  a  time  when  I  had  higher 
aims 
Than  thus  to  lie  among  the  flow- 
ers and  listen 
To  listening  birds,  or  watch  the  sun- 
set's flames 
On  the  broad  river's  smface  glow 
and  glisten. 

There  was  a  time,  perhaps,  when  I 
had  thought 
To  make  a  name,  a  home,  a  bright 
existence: 
But  time  has  shown  me   that    ray 
dreams  are  naught 
Save  a  mirage  that  vanished  with 
the  distance. 

Well,  it  is  gone:  I  care  no  longer 
now 
For  fame,  for  fortune,  or  for  empty 
praises; 
Rather  than  wear  a  ciown  upon  my 
brow, 
I'd    lie    forever   here   among  tliQ 
daisies. 

So  you,  who  wish  for  fame,  good 
friend,  pass  by; 
With  you  I  surely  cannot  think  to 
quarrel : 
Give    me    peace,    rest,    this    bank 
whereon  I  lie. 
And  spare  me  both  the  labor  and 
the  laurel! 


24 


ARNOLD. 


Matthew   Arnold. 

YOUTH'S  AGITATIONS. 


When  1  shall  be  divorced,  some  ten 

years  hence, 
From  this  poor  present  self  which  I 

am  now; 
When  youth  has    done    its  tedious 

vain   expense 
Of  passions  that  forever  ebb  and  flow ; 

Shall  1  not  joy  youth's  heats  are  left 

behind, 
And  breathe  more  happy  in  an  even 

clime?  — 
Ah  no,  for  then  I  shall  begin  to  find 
A  thousand   virtues  in    this    hated 

time! 

Then  I  shall  w^ish  its  agitations  back, 

And  all  its  thwarting  ciu-rents  of  de- 
sire; 

Then  I  shall  praise  the  heat  which 
then  I  lack. 

And  call  this  hurrying  fever,  gener- 
ous fire; 

And  sigh  that  one  thing  only  has 
been  lent 

To  youth  and  age  in  common  —  dis- 
content. 


IMMORTALITY,  , 

Foiled  by  our  fellow-men,  depress' d, 

outworn. 
We  leave  the  brutal  world  to  take  its 

way. 
And,  P«f/ence/  In  another  life,  we  say , 
The  world  shall  be  thr'ust  down,  and 

we  up-home. 

And  will  not,   then,   the    immortal 

armies  scorn 
The  world's  poor,  routed  leavings? 

or  will  they. 
Who  fail'd  under  tlie  heat  of  this 

life's  day. 
Support  the  fervors  of  the  heavenly 

morn  ? 


No,  no!  the  energy  of  life  may  be 
Kept    on    after  the  grave,   but  not 

begun ; 
And    he    who    flagg'd    not    in    the 

earthly  strife. 

From  strength  to  strength  advancing 

only  he, 
His  soul  well-knit,  and  all  his  battles 

won, 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal 

life. 


EAST   LOXDOy. 

'TwAS  August,  and  the  fierce  sun 
overhead 

Smote  on  the  squalid  streets  of  Beth- 
nal  Green, 

And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his 
windows  seen 

In  Spitaltields,  look'd  thrice  dis- 
pirited. 

I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and 

said : 
"  111  and  o'erwork'd,  how  fare  you  in 

this  scene?" — 
"Bravely!"  said  he;  "for  I  of  late 

have  been 
Much    cheer' d    with    thoughts     of 

Christ,  the  limny  bread.'- 

O  human  soul!  as  long  as  thou  canst 

so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light. 
Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and 

flow. 

To  cheer  thee,  and  to  right  thee  if 

thou  roam  — 
Not    with    lost    toil    thou    laborest 

through  the  night! 
Thou  mak'st  the  heaven  thou  hop'st 

indeed  thy  home. 


ARNOLD. 


25 


AUSTERITY  OF  POETRY. 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow, 
Ere  Dante  came,  the  trump  of  sacred 

song. 
In    his    light   youth    amid  a  festal 

throng 
Sate  with  his  bride  to  see  a  public 

show. 

Fair  was  the  bride,  and  on  her  front 
did  glow 

Youth  like  a  star;  and  what  to  youth 
belong  — 

Gay  raiment,  sparkling  gauds,  ela- 
tion strong. 

A  prop  gave  way !  crash  fell  a  plat- 
form! lo. 

Mid    struggling    sufferers,    hurt    to 

death,  she  lay! 
Shuddering,  they  drew  her  garments 

off  —  and  found 
A  robe  of  sackcloth  next  the  smooth, 

white  skin. 

Such,  poets,  is  your  bride,  the  Muse ! 

young,  gay. 
Radiant,  adorn'd  outside;  a  hidden 

ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 


[From  Memorial  Verses.] 
GOETHE. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 
He  read  each  A\ound,  each  weakness 

clear; 
And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place. 
And    said:    T/iou^ ailcst    here,    and 

here  ! 


EARLY  DEATH  AND  FAME. 

Foil  him  who  must  see  many  years, 
1  pmise  the  life  which  slips  away 
Out  of  the  light  ami  mutely;  which 

avoids 
Fame,  and  her  less  fair  followei-s, 

envy,  stiife. 
Stupid  detraction,  jealousy,  cabal, 
Insincere  praises;  which  descends 
The  quiet  mossy  track  to  age. 


l5ut,  when  immature  death 
Beckons  too  early  the  guest 
From  the  half-tried  banquet  of  life. 
Young,  in  the  bloom  of  his  days; 
Leaves  no  leisure  to  press. 
Slow  and  surely,  the  sweets 
Of  a  tranquil  life  in  the  shade  — 
Fuller  for  him  be  the  hours! 
Give  him  emotion,  though  pain! 
Let  him  live,  let  him  feel :  J  have  lived. 
Heap  up  his  moments  with  life! 
Triple  his  pulses  with  fame ! 


SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
Wliat  1  am,  and  what  1  ought  to  be. 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which 

bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit 

sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 
O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 
"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have 

calm'd  me, 
Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the 

end! 

"  All,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  stare, 

ye  waters, 
On  my  heart    your   mighty  charm 

renew ; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel    my  soul    becoming   vast    like 

you!" 

From  the  intense,  clear,   star-sown 

vault  of  heaven. 
Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way. 
In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the 

answer : 
"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are  ?  Live 

as  they. 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round 
them, 

Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see,  • 

These  demand  not  that  the  things 
without  them 

Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sym- 
pathy. 


26 


BAILEY— BAILLIE. 


"And   with    joy   the  stars  perform 

their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-si Iver'd 

roll; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine 

with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"Bomided  by  themselves,  and  un re- 
gardful 

In  what  state  God's  other  works  may 
be, 


In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers 

pouring, 
These  attain  the    mighty    life    you 

see." 

O  air-born  voice !  long  since,  severely 

clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart 

I  hear: 
"Kesolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know, 

that  he 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery  I " 


Philip  James   Bailey. 

THE  TRUE  MEASURE  OF  LIFE. 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years;  in  thoughts,  not  breath; 

In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  the  dial. 

W^e  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs  when  they  beat 

For  God,  for  man,  for  duty.     He  most  lives, 

W^ho  thinks  most,  feels  noblest,  acts  the  best. 

Life  is  but  a  means  unto  an  end — that  end. 

Beginning,  mean,  and  end  to  all  things,  God. 


Joanna   Baillie. 


THE    WORTH  OF  FAME. 

Oh!  who  shall  lightly  say,  that  Fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name! 
Whilst  in  that  sound  there  is  a  charm 
The  nerves  to  brace,  the  heart   to 

warm. 
As,  thinking  of  the  mighty  dead, 
The  young  from  slothful  couch  will 
start. 
And    vow,   with    lifted    hands    out- 
spread, 
Like  them  to  act  a  noble  part? 

Oh !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  Fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name! 
^Vllen,   but  for    those,   our    mighty 
dead, 

All  ages  past  a  blank  w^ould  be. 
Sunk  in  oblivion's  murky  bed, 

A  desert  bare,  a  shipless  sea? 


They  are  the  distant  objects  seen,  —r 
The  lofty  marks  of  what  hath  been. 

Oh!  wiio  shall  lightly  say  that  Fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name! 
When  memoiy  of  the  niighty  dead 

To  earth-worn  i3ilgrim's  wistful  eye 
The  brightest  rays  of  cheering  shed. 

That  point  to  innnortality? 


THE  KITTEN. 

Wanton"   droll,    whose    harmless 
play 
Beguiles  the  rustic's  closing  day. 
When  drawn  the  evening  fire  about, 
Sit  aged  crone  and  thoughtless  lout, 
And  child  upon  his  three-foot  stool, 
Wailing  till  his  supi)er  cool; 


BAIL  LIE. 


27 


And   maid,  whose  cheek  oiitblooms 

the  rose. 
As  brigljt  the  blazing  fagot  glows, 
Wlio,  bending  to  the  friendly  light 
Plies  her  task  with  busy  sleight; 
Come,  show  thy  tricks  and  sportive 

graces, 
Thus  circled  round  with  merry  faces. 

Backward    coll'd,   and    crouching 

low. 
With  glaring  eyeballs  watch  thy  foe, 
Tlie    Iiouscwife's    spindle    whirling 

round. 
Or    thread,   or   straw,   that    on  the 

ground 
Its  shadow  throws,  by  urchin  sly 
Held  out  to  lure  thy  loving  eye; 
Then  onward  stealing,  fiercely  spring 
Upon  the  futile,  faithless  thing. 
Now,  wheeling  roimd,  with  bootless 

skill. 
Thy  bo-peep  tail  provokes  thee  still, 
As  oft  beyond  thy  curving  side 
Its  jetty  tip  is  seen  to  glide; 
Till  from  thy  centre,  starting  fair. 
Thou  sidelong  rear'st,  witli  rump  in 

air, 
Erected  stiff,  and  gait  awry, 
Like  madam  in  lier  tantrums  high : 
Though  ne'er  a  madam  of  them  all, 
Wliose  silken  kirtle  sweeps  the  hall 
More  varied  trick  and  whim  displays, 
To    catch   the   admirinii    stransrer's 


But  not  alone  by  cottage  fire 
Do  rustics  rude  thy  feats  admire; 
The    learned  sage,   whose  tlioughts 

explore 
The  widest  range  of  human  lore, 
Or,  with  unfetter'd  fancy,  fly 
Through  airy  heights  of  poesy. 
Pausing,  smiles  with  alter' d  air, 
To  see  thee  climb  liis  elbow-cliair, 
Or,  strugghng  on  the  mat  below, 
Uold  warfare  with  liis  slipper'd  toe. 
ihe  widow'd  dame,  or  lonely  maid, 
\\\\o  in  the  still,  but  clieerless  shade 
Of  liome  unsocial,  spends  her  age. 
And  rarely  turns  a  letter'd  page; 
Upon  her  hearth  for  thee  lets  "fall 
The  rounded  cork,  or  paper  ball. 
Nor  chides  thee  on  thy  wicked  watch 


The  ends  of  ravell'd  skein  to  catch, 
But  lets  thee  have  thy  wayward  will, 
Perplexing  oft  her  sober  skill 


MY   LOVE  IS   ON  HER    WAY. 

Oh,  welcome  bat  and  owlet  gi-ay, 
Thus  winging  low  your  airy  way  I 
And  welcome  moth  and  drowsy  fly 
That  to  mine  ear  comes  humming  by! 
And  welcome  shadows  dim  and  deep, 
And  stars  that  through  the  pale  sky 

peep; 
Oh  welcome  all !  to  me  ye  say 
My  woodland  love  is  on  her  way. 

Upon  the  soft  wind  floats  her  hair. 
Her  breath  is  on  the  dewy  air; 
Her  steps  are  in  the  whisper'd  sound, 
That  steals  along  the  stilly  ground. 
Oh,  dawn  of  day,  in  rosy  bower, 
Wliat  art  thou  to  this  witching  hour? 
Oh,  noon  of  day,  in  sunshine  bright. 
What  art  thou  to  this  fall  of  night  ? 


SNATCHES   OF  MIRTH  IN  A  DARK 
LIFE. 

Didst  thou  ne'er  see  the  swallow's 

veering  breast. 
Winging  the  air  beneatli  some  murky 

cloud 
In  tlie  sunned  glimpses  of  a  stormy 

day, 
Shiver  in  silvery  brightness  ? 
Or  boatman's  oar,  as  vivid  lightning 

flash 
In  the  faint  gleam,  that  like  a  spirit's 

path 
Tracks  the  still  waters  of  some  sul- 
len lake  ? 
Or  lonely  tower,  from  its  brown  mass 

of  woods, 
Give  to  the  parting  of  a  wintry  sun 
One  hasty  glance  in  mockery  of  the 

night 
Closing  in  darkness  round  it  ?  (Gentle 

friend ! 
Chide  not  her  mirth  who  was  sad 

yesterday, 
And  nmy  be  so  to-morrow. ) 


^8 


BALL  AN  TINE  —  BARB  A  ULD. 


James   Ballantine. 

ILKA    BLADE    O'  GRASS  KEFS   ITS   AIN  DRAP   O'  DEW. 

Confidf:  ye  aye  in  Providence,  for  Providence  is  kind, 

And  bear  ye  a'  life's  changes,  \vi'  a  calm  and  tranquil  mind, 

Though  pressed  and  hemmed  on  every  side,  ha'e  faith  and  ye'll  win  tlirough 

For  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o'dew. 

Gin  reft  frae  friends  or  crost  in  love,  as  whiles  nae  doubt  ye've  been, 
Grief  lies  deep  hidden  in  your  heart,  or  tears  flow  frae  your  een, 
Believe  it  for  the  best,  and  trow  there's  good  in  store  for  you, 
For  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  aiii  drap  o'  dew. 

In  lang,  lang  days  o'  simmer,  wlien  the  clear  and  cloudless  sky 
Kefuses  ae  wee  drap  o'  rain  to  nature  parched  and  dry. 
The  genial  night,  wi'  balmy  breath,  gars  verdure  spring  anew, 
And  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 

Sae,  lest  'mid  fortune's  sunshine  we  shoidd  feel  owre  proud  and  hie. 
And  in  our  pride  forget  to  wipe  the  tear  frae  poortith's  e'e, 
Some  wee  dark  clouds  o'  sorrow  come,  we  ken  na  whence  or  hoo, 
But  ilka  blade  o'  grass  keps  its  ain  drap  o'  dew. 


Anna   Letitia   Barbauld. 


LIFE. 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  when,  or  liow,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me 's  a  secret  yet. 


Life!  we've  been  long  together 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy 
weatlier ; 

'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are 
dear  — 

Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 

—  Tlien  steal  away,  give  little  warn- 
ing, 

Choose  thine  own  time; 

Say  not  Good  Niglit,  —  but  in  some 
brighter  clime 
Bid  me  Good  Morning. 


THE    DEATH   OF    THE    VIRTUOUS. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies' 
When  sinks  a  righteous  soul  to  rest, 

How  mildly  beam  tlie  closing  eyes. 
How  gently  heaves    tli'   expiring 
breast. 

So  fades  a  summer  cloud  away 
So  sinks  tlie  gale  when  storms  are 
o'er. 

So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 
So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shore. 

Triumphant  smiles  tlie  victor  brow, 
Fanned    by  some    angel's    purple 
wing ;  — 
Wliere  is,  O  Grave !  thy  victory  now ! 
And  wliere,  insidious  Death,  thy 
sting ! 


BABKER  —  BARLOW. 


29 


Farewell,  conflicting  joys  and  fears, 
Wliere  light  and  shade  alternate 
dwell! 
How  bright  the  unchaMging  morn 
appears ;  — 
Farewell,  iucoustant  world,  fare- 
well! 

Its  duty  done,  —  as  sinks  the  day. 
Light    from    its    load    the    spirit 
flies; 
While  heaven  and  earth  combine  to 
say 
"Sweet  is  the  scene  when  Yirtiie 
dies!'' 

David   Barker. 

THE  COVERED  RlilDGE. 


Teli.  the  fainting  soul  in  the  weary 
form. 
There's    a   world    of    the   purest 
bliss, 
That  is  linked  as  the  soul  and  form 
are  linked, 
By  a  covered  bridge  with  this. 


Yet  to  reach  that  realm  on  the  other 
shore, 
We  must  pass  through  a  transient 
gloom. 
And   must  walk  unseen,   unhelped, 
and  alone 
Through  that  covered  bridge  —  the 
tomb. 


But  we  all  pass  over  on  equal  temis. 

For  the  universal  toll 
Is  the  outer  garb,  which  the  hand  of 
God 

Has  flung  around  the  soul. 

Though  the  eye  is  dim  and  the  bridge 
is  dark. 
And  the  river  it  spans  is  wide, 
Yet  Faith  points  through  to  a  shin- 
ing mount 
That  looms  on  the  other  side. 

To  enable  our  feet  on  the  next  day's 
march 
To  climb  up  that  golden  ridge, 
We  must    all    lie    down    for   a  one 
night's  rest 
Inside  of  the  covered  bridge. 


Joel  Barlow. 


TO  FREEDOM. 

Sun  of  the  moral  world!  effulgent 
source 

Of  man's  best  wisdom  and  his  stead- 
iest force. 

Soul-searching  Freedom!  here  assume 
thy  stand, 

And  radiate  hence  to  every  distant 
land; 

Point  out  and  prove  how  all  the 
scenes  of  strife. 

The  shock  of  states,  the  impassion' d 
broils  of  life, 


Spring  from  unequal  sway;  and  how 

they  fly 
Before  the  splendor  of  thy  peaceful 

eye; 
Unfold  at  last  the  genuine  social  plan. 
The  mind's  full  scope,  the  dignity  of 

man. 
Bold    nature  bursting   through   her 

long  disguise, 
And  nations  daring  to  be  just  and  wise. 
Yes!  righteous  Freedom,  heaven  and 

earth  and  sea 
Yield  or  withhold  their  various  gifts 

for  thee ; 


30 


BARNARD. 


Protected  industry  beneatli  thy  reign 
Leads  all   the    virtues    in  her  filial 

train ; 
Courageous  Probity,  with  brow  serene ; 
And  Temperance  calm  presents  her 

placid  mien ; 
Contentment,     Moderation,     Labor, 

Art, 
Mould  the  new  man  and  humanize 

his  heart ; 


To  public  plenty,  private  ease  di- 
lates, 

Domestic  peace,  to  harmony  of  states. 

Protected  Industry,  careering  far, 

Detects  the  cause,  and  cm-es  the  rage 
of  war, 

And  sweeps,  with  forceful  arm,  to 
their  last  graves, 

Kings  from  the  eartli  and  pirates 
from  the  waves. 


Lady  Anne  Barnard. 


AULD  nOBfX   on  AY. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the  cows  come  hame, 
When  a'  the  weary  warld  to  quiet  rest  are  gane; 
The  woes  of  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 
Unkenned  by  my  gudeman  who  soundly  sleeps  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride, 
But,  saving  ae  crown  piece,  he'd  naething  else  beside. 
To  make  the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea; 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound,  O  they  were  baith  for  me ! 

Before  he  had  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  our  cow  was  stown  away; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick  —  my  Jamie  was  at  sea  — 
And  Auld  Robin  Gray,  O !  he  came  a-courting  me. 

My  father  cou'dna  work  —  my  mother  cou'dna  spin; 
I  toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  cou'dna  win; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi'  tears  in  his  ee, 
Said,  "  Jenny,  O!  for  their  sakes,  will  you  marry  me  ! " 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  looked  for  Jamie  back ; 
But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a  wrack; 
His  ship  it  was  a  wrack!    Why  didna  Jamie  dee  ? 
Or,  wherefore  am  I  spared  to  cry  out,  Wae  is  me ! 

My  father  argued  sair  —  my  mother  didna  speak, 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break; 
They  gied  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  in  the  sea; 
And  so  Auld  Robin  Gray,  lie  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife,  a  week  but  only  four, 

When,  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my  door, 

I  saw  my  J^amie's  ghaist  —  I  cou'dna  think  it  he. 

Till  he  said,  "  I'm  come  hame,  my  love,  to  marry  thee!" 


BATES. 


31 


0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say  of  a'  ; 

Ae  kiss  mc  took,  na  rnair  —  1  bade  him  gang  awa. 

1  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  nae  like  to  dee; 
For  O,  1  am  but  young  to  cry  out,  Wae  is  me ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin, 
I  darena  think  of  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin ; 
But  I  will  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  Auld  Kobiu  Gray,  O !  he  is  sae  kind  to  me. 


Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


MAKE   THINE  ANGEL  GLAD. 

From  the  morniHg  even  until  now, 

Evil  over  thee  full  power  hath  had ; 
Oh,    remember    late    the    shattered 
vow! 
Turn    to    God,   and   make   thine 
angel  glad. 

Sin  will    seek    to    snare   thy  heart 
again ; 
Though  her  beauty  make  thee  al- 
most mad, 
Though  resistance   make  thee  pale 
with  pain. 
Turn   to    God,    and   make    thine 
angel  glad. 


CONSECRATION. 

A  lover's  mood. 

All  the  kisses  that  I  have  given, 
I  grudge  from  my  soul  to-day, 

And  of  all  1  have  ever  taken, 
1  would  wipe  the  thought  away. 


How  1  wish  my  lips  had  been  her- 
mits, 

Held  apart  from  kith  and  kin, 
That  fresh  from  God's  holy  service, 

To  Love's  they  might  enter  in. 


THE   OLD    YEAR  AND   THE   NEW. 

The  years  have  linings  just  as  gob- 
lets do: 

The  old  year  is  the  lining  of  the 
new, — 

Filled  with  the  wine  of  precious 
memories, 

Tlie  golden  was  dotli  line  tlie  silver 
is. 


WOODBINES  IN  OCTOBER. 

As   dyed    in    blood,   the    streaming 
vines  appear. 
While  long  and  low  the  wind  about 
them  grieves; 
The  heart  of    Autumn   must    have 
broken  here 
And  poured  its  treasure  out  upon 
the  leaves. 


TO    VICTORIA. 

A  MONARCH  soul  hath  niled  thyself,  O  Queen, 
Else  what  it  is,  thy  kingdom  had  not  been. 


32 


BATES. 


Fletcher   Bates. 


THE   TWO  BIRDS. 

As  leaves  turned  red 

And  some  fell  dead, 
For  sunnier  skies  two  songsters  fled ; 

But  ere  they  went, 

In  merriment 
They  sung  how  summer  had  been 
spent. 

One  song  confest, 

"1  had  my  nest 
Near  yonder  mountain's  lofty  crest; 

Where  none  intrude 

In  lonely  mood 
I  carolled  oft  in  solitude." 

The  other  sung 

"  I  built  among 
The  cottagers,  where  old  and  young 

Who  trod  the  vale 

Would  often  hail 
Me,  as  their  little  nightingale." 


Then  off  they  flew, 

Like  specks  they  grew, 
Then  faded  in  the  heavenly  blue. 

Our  human  lot 

Was  theirs,  I  wot, 
For  one  was  missed,  and  one  was  not. 


THE   DEAD   REE. 

Where  honeysuckles  scent  the  way, 
I  heai'd  thee  hunmiing  yesterday; 
Thy  little  life  was  not  in  vain, 
It  gathered  sweets  for  other's  gain. 
And  somewhere  in  a  dainty  cell 
Is  stored  delicious  hydromel. 

O  poet!  in  thy  calm  retreat. 
From  joy  and  grief  extracting  sw^eet. 
Some  day  thy  fancy's  wings  must  fold. 
And  thou  lie  motionless  and  cold. 
Perhaps  thy  garnered  honey  then 
May  be  the  food  of  living  men. 


Katharine   Lee   Bates. 


THE   ORGANIST. 

Slowly  I  circle  the  dim,  dizzy  stair. 

Wrapt  in  my  cloak's  gray  fold. 
Holding  my  heart  lest  it  throb  to  theair 
Its  radiant  secret,  for  though  I  be 
old,    . 
Though  1  totter  and  rock  like  a  ship 

in  the  wind. 
And  the  sunbeams   come  unto  me 
broken  and  blind. 
Yet  my  spirit  drinks  youth  from 
the  treasure  we  hold, 
Richer  than  gold. 

Princes  below  me,  lips  wet  from  the 
wine. 
Hush  at  my  organ's  swell; 
Ladies  applaud  me  with  clappings  as 
fine 
As  showers  that  splash  in  a  mu- 
sical well. 


But  their  ears  only  hear  mighty  mel- 
odies ringing, 
And  their  souls  never  know  'tis  my 
angel  there  singing. 
That  the  grand  organ-angel  awakes 
in  his  cell 
Under  my  spell. 

There  in  the  midst  of  the  wandering 
pipes, 
Far  from  the  gleaming  keys. 
And  the  organ-front  with  its  gilded 
stripes. 
My  glorious  angel  lies  sleeping  at 
ease. 
And  the  hand  of  a  stranger  may  beat 

at  his  gate, 
And  the  ear  of  a  stranger  may  listen 
and  wait. 
But  he  only  cries  in  his  pain  for 
these, 
Witless  to  please. 


BA  YL  Y. 


33 


Angel,  my  angel,  the  old  man's  hand 

Xnoweth  Ihy  silver  way. 
1  loose  thy  lips  from  their  silence- 
band 
And  over  thy  heart-strings  my  fin- 
gers play, 
While  the  song  peals  forth  from  thy 

mellow  throat, 
And  my  spirit  climbs  on  the  climb- 
ing note. 
Till   1  mingle  thy  tone  with  the 
tones  away 
Over  the  day. 


So  I  look  up  as  I  follow  the  tone, 

Up  with  my  dim  old  eyes, 
And  I  wonder  if  organs  have  angels 
alone, 
Or  if,  as  my  fancy  might  almost 
surmise. 
Each  man  in  his  heart  folds  an  angel 

with  wings. 
An  angel  that  slumbers,  but  wakens 
and  sings 
When  thrilled  by  the  touch  that  is 
sympathy-wise. 
Bidding  it  rise. 


Thomas   Haynes   Bayly. 


THE   FinST  GRA  Y  HAIH. 

The  matron  at  her  mirror, 

With  her  hand  upon  her  brow, 
Sits  gazing  on  her  lovely  face, — 

Ay,  lovely  even  now! 
Why  doth  she  lean  upon  her  hand 

With  such  a  look  of  care  ? 
Why    steals    that    tear    across    her 
cheek  ? 

She  sees  her  first  gray  hair! 

Time  from  her  form  hath  ta'en  away 

But  little  of  its  grace; 
His  touch  of  thought  hath  dignified 

The  beauty  of  her  face. 
Yet  she  might  mingle  in  the  dance 

Where  maidens  gayly  trip. 
So  bright  is  still  her  hazel  eye, 

So  beautiful  her  lip. 

The  faded  form  is  often  mark'd 

By  sorrow  more  than  years, — 
The  wrinkle  on  the  cheek  may  be 

The  course  of  secret  tears ; 
The  mournful  lip  may  murmur  of 

A  love  it  ne'er  confess'd, 
And  the  dimness  of  the  eye  beti-ay 

A  heart  that  cannot  rest. 

But  she  hath  been  a  happy  wife : 

The  lover  of  her  youth 
May  proudly  claim  the  smile   that 
pays 

The  trial  of  his  truth ; 


A  sense  of  slight  —  of  loneliness 
Hath  never  banish'd  sleep: 

Her  life  hath  been  a  cloudless  one; 
Then  wherefore  doth  she  weep  ? 

She  look'd  upon  her  raven  locks, — 

What  thoughts  did  they  recall  ? 
Oh!  not  of  nights  when  they  were 
deck'd 

For  banquet  or  for  ball ; 
They  brought  back  thoughts  of  early 
youth, 

Ere  she  had  learn'd  to  check, 
With  artificial  wreaths,  the  curls 

That  sported  o'er  her  neck. 

She  seem'd  to  feel  her  mother's  hand 

Pass  lightly  through  her  hair. 
And  draw  it  from  her  brow,  to  leave 

A  kiss  of  kindness  there. 
She  seem'd  to  view  her  father's  smile, 

And  feel  the  playful  touch 
That  sometimes  feign' d  to  steal  away 

The  curls  she  prized  so  much. 

And  now  she  sees  her  first  gray  hair ! 

Oh,  deem  it  not  a  crime 
For  her  to  weep,  when  she  beholds 

The  first  footmark  of  Time ! 
She  knows  that,  one  by  one,  those 
mute 

Mementos  will  increase, 
And   steal    youth,   beauty,   strength 
away. 

Till  life  itself  shall  cease. 


84 


BEATTIE. 


All,  lady!  heed  the  monitor  I 
Thy  mirror  tells  thee  truth ; 

Assume  the  matron's  folded  veil, 
Resign  the  wreath  of  youth : 


Go!  bind  it  on  thy  daughter's  brow, 
In  her  thou'lt  still  look  fair  — 

'Twere  well  would  all  learn  wisdom, 
who 
Behold  the  first  gray  hair! 


[From  The  Minstrel.] 
THE  ASCENT  TO  FAME. 


James   Beattie. 

[From  The  Minstrel.] 
BEAUTIES  OF  MOBXIXG. 


Ah  I  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to 

climb 
The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  tem- 
ple shines  afar? 
Ah!  who  can  tell  how  many  a  soul 

sublime 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant 

star, 
And  waged  with  Fortune  an  eternal 

war  ? 
Checked  by  the  scoff  of  Pride,  by 

Envy's  frown, 
And  Poverty's  unconquerable  bar. 
In  life's  low  vale  remote  has  pined 

alone. 
Then  dropped   into  the  grave,   un- 

pitied  and  unknown! 


[From  The  Minstrel.] 
THE   CHARMS    OF  NATURE. 

Oh,   how  canst  thou   renounce  the 

boundless  store 
Of    charms    which    Nature    to    her 

votary  yields ! 
The  warbling  woodland,  the  resound- 
ing shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture 

of  fields; 
All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning 

gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of 

even. 
All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering 

bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of 

heaven. 
Oh,  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and 

hope  to  be  forgiven  ? 


But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can 

tell  ? 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the 

mountain  side; 
The   lowing    herd;,  the    sheepfold's 

simple  bell; 
The    pipe    of    early    shepherd    dim 

descried 
In  the  lone  valley;  echoing  far  and 

wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs 

above ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean- 
tide  ; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of 

love. 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the 

universal  grove. 


The  cottage-curs  at  early  pilgrim 
bark ; 

Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping 
milkmaid  sings; 

The  whistling  ploughman  stalks 
afield;  and,  hark! 

Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous 
wagon  rings; 

Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  as- 
tonished springs; 

Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the 
drowsy   hour; 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whir- 
ling wings; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  seques- 
tered bower. 

And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her 
aerial  tower. 


BEERS. 


35 


[From  The  Minstrel.'] 
DEATH  AX D  RESUHnECTION. 

Wheiie  now  the  rill,  melodious, 
pure,  and  cool. 

And  meads,  with  life,  and  mirth, 
and  beauty  crowned  ? 

Ah!  see,  the  unsightly  slime,  and 
sluggish  pool, 

Have  all  the  solitary  vale  em- 
browned ; 

Fled  each  fair  fonn,  and  nuite  each 
melting  sound, 

The  raven  croaks  forlorn  on  naked 
spray. 

And  hark!  the  river  bursting  every 
mound, 

Down  tlie  vale  thunders,  and  with 
wasteful  sway 

Uproots  the  grove,  and  rolls  the  shat- 
tered rocks  away. 

Yet  such  the  destiny  of  all  on  earth : 

So  nourishes  and  fades  majestic  man. 

P'air  is  the  bud  his  vernal  morn 
brings  forth, 

And  fostering  gales  a  while  the  nurs- 
ling fan. 

O  smile,  ye  heavens,  serene ;  ye  mil- 
dews wan. 

Ye  blighting  whirlwinds,  spare  his 
balmy  prime. 

Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span. 

Borne  on  the  swift,  though  silent 
wings  of  Time, 

Old  age  comes  on  apace  to  ravage  all 
the  clime. 


And  be  it  so.      Let   those  deplore 

their  doom 
Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark 

sojourn ; 
But  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  the 

tomb. 
Can  smile  at  Fate,  and  wonder  how 

they  mourn. 
Shall  Spring  to  these  sad  scenes  no 

more  return  ? 
Is  yonder  wave  the    Sun's    eternal 

bed  ? 
Soon  shall  the  orient  with  new  luste 

burn, 
And  Spring  shall  soon  her  vital  influ- 
ence shed. 
Again  attune  the  grove,  again  adorn 

the  mead. 

Shall    1    be    left    forgotten    in    the 

dust. 
When  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower 

revive  ? 
Shall  Nature's  voice,  to  man  alone 

unjust. 
Bid  him,  though  doomed  to  perish, 

hope  to  "live  ? 
Is  it  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must 

strive 
With  disappointment,   penury,   and 

pain  ? 
No:  Heaven's  immortal  spring  shall 

yet  arrive. 
And  man's  majestic   beauty, bloom 

again, 
Bright  through  the  eternal  year  of 

Love's'triumphant  rei^u. 


Ethel  Lynn    Beers. 


THE   PICKET-GUAni). 

"All  quiet   along  the    Potomac," 
they  say, 
''Except,  now  and  then,  a  stray 
picket 
Is  shot  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to 
and  fro, 
By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 


'Tis  nothing  —  a  private  or  two,  now 
and  then, 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the 
battle; 
Not  an  othcer  lost —  only  one  of  the 
men 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death- 
rattle." 


36 


BEERS. 


All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 
Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully 
dreaming ; 
Their  tents,  in  tlie  rays  of  the  clear 
autumn  moon 
Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are 
gleaming. 
A  trenudous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night- 
wind 
Through  the  forest-leaves  softly  is 
creeping; 
While  the  stars  up  above,  with  their 
glittering  eyes. 
Keep    guard  —  for    the    army    is 
sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone 
sentry's  tread 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the 
fountain. 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low 
trundle-bed. 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  moun- 
tain. 
His  musket  falls   slack  —  his  face, 
dark  and  grim, 
Grows     gentle     with     memories 
tender. 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  chil- 
dren asleep  — 
For  their    mother  —  may  Heaven 
defend  her! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine   just  as 
brightly  as  then. 
That  night  when  the  love  yet  un- 
spoken, 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips  —  when  low- 
nuirmured  vows 
Were  pledged  to  he  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over 
his  eyes, 
He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  well- 
ing, 
And  gatliers  his  gmi  closer  up  to  its 
place, 
As  if  to  keep    down    the    heart- 
swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted 
pine-tree, 
The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weaiy; 


Yet  onward   he    goes    through    the 
broad  belt  of  light, 
Toward  the  shade  of  tlie  forest  so 
dreary. 
Hark!  was  it  the  night  wind  that  rus- 
tled the  leaves  ? 
Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously 
flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle — "Ah!  Mary, 
good-by!" 
And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and 
plashing. 

All    quiet    along    the    Potomac    to- 
night. 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of    the 
river; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face 
of  the  dead  — 
The  picket's  off  duty  forever! 


WEIGHING    THE   BABY. 

"How  many  pounds  does  the  baby 
weigh  — 
Baby  who  came  but  a  month  ago  ? 
How  many  pounds  from  the  crown- 
ing curl 
To  tbe  rosy  point  of  the  restless 
toe?" 

Grandfather  ties  the  'kerchief  knot. 
Tenderly     guides     the     swinging 
weight. 

And  carefully  over  his  glasses  peers 
To  read  the  record,  "only  eight." 

Softly  the  echo  goes  around: 

The  father  laughs  at  the  tiny  girl ; 
The  fair    young"  mother    sings    the 
words, 
While  grandmother   smooths    the 
golden  curl. 

And    stooping    above    the    precious 
thing, 
Nestles  a  kiss  within  a  prayer, 
Murmuring  softly  "  Little  one, 
Grandfather    did    not  weigh    you- 
fair." 


BEAUMONT—  BENNETT. 


37 


Nobody  weighed  the  baby's  smile, 
Or  the  love  that  came  with  the 
helpless  one; 

Nobody  weighed  the  threads  of  care, 
From  which  a  woman's  life  is  spun. 

No  index  tells  the  mighty  worth 
Of  a  little  baby's  quiet  breath  — 

A  soft,  unceasing  metronome. 
Patient  and  faithful  until  death. 

Nobody  weighed  the  baby*s  soul, 
For  here  on  earth  no  weights  there 
be 


That  could  avail ;  God  only  knows 
Its  value  In  eternity. 

Only  eight  pounds  to  hold  a  soul 
That  seeks  no  angel's  silver  wing. 

But  shrines  it  in  this  human  guise. 
Within  so  frail  and  small  a  thing! 

Oh,  mother!  laugh  your  men^  note. 
Be  gay  and  glad,  but  do  n't  for- 
get 
From  baby's  eyes  looks  out  a  soul 
That    claims    a    home    iu   Eden 
yet. 


Francis  Beaumont. 


ON  THE   TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


Mortality,  behold  and  fear 
What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here! 
Think  how  many  royal  bones 
Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones: 
Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands. 
Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their 

hands, 
Where  from  their  pulpits  seal'd  with 

dust 
They  preach,   "In  greatness  is  no 

trust." 


Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 
With  the  richest  royallest  seed 
That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 
Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin: 
Here  the  bones  of  biilh  have  cried 
"Though  gods  they  were,   as  men 

they  died!" 
Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 
Dropt  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings: 
Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 


William   Cox  Bennett. 


THE  SEASONS. 

A  BLUE-EYED  child  that  sits  amid 
the  noon, 
O'erhung  with  a  laburnum's  droop- 
ing sprays, 
Singing  her  little  songs,  while  softly 
round 
Along  the  grass  the  chequered  sun- 
shine plays. 

All  'Deauty  that  is  throned  in  woman- 
hood 
Pacing  a  summer  garden's  foun- 
tained  walks. 


That  stoops  to  smooth  a  glossy  span- 
iel down 
To  hide  her  flushing  cheek  from 
one  who  talks. 

A  happy  mother  with  her  fair-faced 
girls, 
In  v»liose  sweet  spring  again  her 
youth  she  sees. 
With  shout  and  dance  and  laugh  and 
bound  and  song. 
Stripping    in     autumn    orchards, 
laden  trees. 


38 


BENSEL. 


An  aged  woman  in  a  wintry  room  — 
Frost  on  the   pane,   without    the 
whirling  snow  — 
Reading  old  letters    of    her    far-off 
youth, 
Of  sorrows  past  and  joys  of  long 
ago. 


SUMMER    rain: 

O  GENTLE,  gentle  summer  rain, 
Let  not  the  silver  lily  pine, 

The  drooping  lily  pine  in  vain 
To  feel  that  dewy  touch  of  thine. 

To  drink  thy  freshness  once  again, 

O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain ! 


In  heat,  the  landscape  quivering  lies; 

The  cattle  pant  beneath  the  tree; 
Through  parching    air    and    purple 
skies 
The  earth   looks  up   in  vain   for 
thee: 
For  thee,  for  thee  it  looks  in  vain, 
O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain ! 

Come  thou,  and  brim  the  meadow 
streams, 
And  soften  all  the  hills  with  mist; 
O  falling  dew  from  burning  dreams, 
By  thee  shall  herb  and  flower  be 
kissed  : 
And  earth  shall  bless  thee  yet  again, 
O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain ! 


James  Berry  Bensel. 


IN  ARABIA. 

"  Choose  thou  between  I "  and  to  his 
enemy 
The  Arab  chief  a  brawny  hand  dis- 
played. 
Wherein,  like  moonlight  on  a  sullen 
sea. 
Gleamed  the  gray   scimetar's  en- 
graven blade. 

"  Choose  thou  between  death  at  my 
hand  and  thine! 
Close  in  my  power  my  vengeance 
1  may  wieak; 
Yet  hesitate  to  strike.     A  hate  like 
mine 
Is    noble    still.      Thou    hast    thy 
choosing — speak ! " 

And  Ackbar  stood.     About  him  all 
the  band 
That  hailed  his  captor  chieftain, 
with  grave  eyes, 
His  answer  waited,  while  that  heavy 
hand 
Stretched  like  a  bar  between  him 
and  the  skies. 

Straight  in  the  face  before  him  Ack- 
bar sent 
A  sneer  of  scorn,  and  raised  his 
noble  head; 


"Strike!"  and  the  desert  monarch, 
as  content, 
Rehung  the  weapon  at  his  girdle 
red. 

Then  Ackbar  nearer  crept  and  lifted 
high 
His  arms  toward  the  heaven  so  far 
and  blue. 
Wherein  the   sunset  rays  began  to 
die, — 
While    o'er    the    band    a    deeper 
silence  grew. 

"Strike!   I  am   ready!    Didst   thou 
think  to  see 
A    son  of    Ghera  spill  upon   the 
dust 
His    noble    blood  ?    Didst    hope    to 
have  my  knee 
Bend  at  thy   feet,  and  with  one 
mighty  thrust 

"  The  life  thou  hatest  flee  before  thee 
here  ? 
Shame  on  thee!  on  thy  race!  art 
thou  the  one 
Who  hast    so    long    thy  vengeance 
counted  dear  ? 
My  hate  is  greater;  I  did  strike  thy 
son, 


BLAKE. 


39 


"Thy  one  son,  Noumid,  dead  before 
my  face : 
And  by  the  swiftest  courser  of  my 
stml 
Sent  to  thy  door  his  corpse.     Aye, 
one  might  trace 
Their  flight  across  the  desert   by 
his  blood. 

**  Strike!  for  my  hate  is  greater  than 
thy  own!" 
But  with  a  fiown  the  Arab  moved 
away, 
Walked  to  a  distant  palm  and  stood 
alone. 
With  eyes  that  looked  where  pur- 
ple mountains  lay. 

This  for  an  Instant:  then  he  turned 
again 
Toward  the  place  where  Ackbar 
waited  still, 
Walking  as  one  benumbed  with  bit- 
ter pain, 
Or  with  a  hateful  mission  to  fulfil. 


"Strike,  for  I  hate  thee!"  Ackbar 
cried  once  more. 
"  Nay,  but  my  hate  1  cannot  find!" 
said  now 
Ilis  enemy.    "  Thy  freedom  I  restore. 
Live;  life  were  more  than  death  to 
such  as  thou." 

So  with  his  gift  of  life  the  Bedouin 
slept 
That  night  untroubled;  but  when 
dawn  broke  through 
The  purple  East,  and  o'er  his  eye- 
lids crept 
The  long,  thin  fingers  of  the  light, 
he  drew 

A  heavy  breath  and  woke:  above  him 
slione 
A  lifted  dagger — "Yea,  he  gave 
thee  life. 
But  I  give  death!"  came  in   fierce 
undertone. 
And  Ackbar  died.      It  was  dead 
Noumid 's  wife. 


William   Blake. 


THE   TIGER. 

Tigek!  Tiger!  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night; 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could    twist    the    sinews    of    thine 

heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat. 
What  dread  hand  forged  thy  dread 

feet  ? 


AVliat     the     hammer?     what     the 

chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?    What  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw   down  their 

spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make 

thee  ? 

Tiger !  Tiger !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night; 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 


40 


BLAMIRE  —  BLOOMFIELD. 


Susanna   Blamire. 


WHAT  AILS  THIS  HEART  O'  MINE. 

What  ails  this  heart  o'  mine  ? 

AVliat  ails  this  watery  ee  ? 
What  gars  me  a'  turn  pale  as  death 

When  I  take  leave  o'  thee  ? 
When  thou  art  far  a wa' , 

Thou  'It  dearer  grow  to  me; 
But  change  o'  place  and  change  o'  folk 

May  gar  thy  fancy  jee. 

When  I  gae  out  at  e'en, 

Or  walk  at  morning  air, 
Ilk  rustling  bush  will  seem  to  say. 

I  used  to  meet  thee  there. 


Then  I'll  sit  down  and  cry, 

And  live  aneath  the  tree, 
And  when  a  leaf  fa's  i'  my  lap, 

I  '11  ca'  't  a  word  frae  thee. 

1  '11  hie  me  to  the  bower 

That  thou  wi'  roses  tied, 
And  where    wi'    mony    a    blushing 
bud 

I  strove  myself  to  hide. 
I  '11  doat  on  ilka  spot 

Where  I  ha'e  been  wi'  thee; 
And     ca'     to    mind    some    kindly 
word, 

By  ilka  bum  and  tree. 


Robert  Bloomfield. 


[From  The  Farmer^s  Boy.'] 
A  SPRING  DAY. 

Advancing  Spring  profusely  spreads 

abroad 
Flowers  of  all  hues,   with  sweetest 

fragrance  stored ; 
Where'er  she  treads  Love  gladdens 

every  plain. 
Delight  on  tiptoe   bears    her    lucid 

train; 
Sweet  Hope  with  conscious  brow  be- 
fore her  flies, 
Anticipating  wealth  from    Summer 

skies ; 
All  Nature  feels  her  renovating  sway ; 
The    sheep-fed    pasture,    and    the 

meadow  gay; 
And   trees,   and  shrubs,    no    longer 

budding  seen, 
Display  the   new-grown   branch    of 

lighter  green; 
On  airy  downs  the  idling  shepherd 

lies, 
And  sees  to-morrow  in  the  marbled 

skies. 


[From  The  Farmer^s  Boy.'] 
A  TEMPEST. 

Anon    tired     laborers     bless     their 

sheltering  home, 
When   midnight,   and   the  frightful 

tempest  come. 
The  farmer  wakes,  and  sees,  with 

silent  dread. 
The  angry  shafts  of  Heaven  gleam 

round  his  bed ; 
The  bursting  cloud  reiterated  roars. 
Shakes  his  straw  roof,  and  jars  his 

bolted  doors: 
The  slow-winged    storm   along    the 

troubled  skies 
Spreads  its  dark  course:  the  wind 

begins  to  rise; 
And  full-leafed  elms,  his  dwelling's 

shade  by  day. 
With  mimic  thunder  give  its  fury 

way : 
Sounds  in  the  chimney-top  a  doleful 

peal 
Midst  pouring  rain,  or  gusts  of  rat- 
tling hail ; 


BLOOMFIELD. 


41 


With  tenfold  clanger  low  the  tem- 
pest bends, 

And  quick  and  strong  the  sulphurous 
flame  descends: 

The  frightened  mastiff  from  his  ken- 
nel flies, 

And  cringes  at  the  door  with  piteous 
cries.  .  .  . 


Wliere  now's  the  trifler!  where  the 

child  of  pride  ? 
These  are  the  moments  when  the 

heart  is  tried! 
Nor  lives  the  man,  with  conscience 

e'er  so  clear, 
But  feels  a  solenm,  reverential  fear; 
Feels  too  a  joy  relieve  his  aching 

breast. 
When  the  spent  storm  hath  howled 

itself  to  rest. 
Still,   welcome  beats   the    long-con- 
tinued shower. 
And    sleep    protracted,   comes  with 

double  power; 
Calm  dreams  of  bliss  bring  on  the 

morning  sun, 
For  every  barn  is  filled,  and  Harvest 

done! 


[From  The  Farmer's  Boy.] 
HARVESTING. 

Hark  !  where  the  sweeping  scythe 

now  rips  along: 
Each   sturdy   mower,   emulous    and 

strong. 
Whose  writhing. form  meridian  heat 

defies, 
Bends  o'er  his  work,  and  every  sinew 

tries ; 
Prostrates  the  waving  treasure  at  his 

feet. 
But  spares  the  rising  clover,  short 

and  sweet. 
Come,  Health!  come.  Jollity!  light- 
footed,  come; 
Here  hold  your  revels,  and  make  this 

your  home. 
Each  heart  awaits  and  hails  you  as 

its  own ; 


Each  moistened  brow,  that  scorns  to 
wear  a  frown : 

The  unpeopled  dwelling  mourns  its 
tenants  strayed; 

E'en  the  domestic  laughing  dairy- 
maid 

Hies  to  the  field,  the  general  toil  to 
share. 

Meanwhile  the  farmer  quits  his 
elbow-chair. 

His  cool  brick  floor,  his  pitcher,  and 
his  ease. 

And  braves  the  sultry  beams,  and 
gladly  sees 

His  gates  thrown  open,  and  his  team 
abroad, 

The  ready  group  attendant  on  his 
word. 

To  turn  the  swaith,  the  quivering 
load  to  rear. 

Or  ply  the  busy  rake,  the  land  to 
clear. 

Siunmer's  light  garb  itself  now  cum- 
brous grown. 

Each  his  thin  doublet  in  the  shade 
throws  down; 

Where  oft  the  mastiff  skulks  with 
half-shut  eye, 

And  rouses  at  the  stranger  passing 
by; 

Whilst  unrestrained  the  social  con- 
verse flows, 

And  every  breast  Love's  powerful 
impulse  knows, 

And  rival  wits  with  more  than  rustic 
grace 

Confess  the  presence  of  a  pretty  face. 


For,  lo!  encircled  there,  the  lovely 

maid, 
In  youth's  own  bloom  and   native 

smiles  arrayed; 
Her  hat  awry,  divested  of  her  gown, 
Her  creaking  stays  of  leather,  stout 

and  brown;  — 
Invidious  barrier!    Why  art  thou  so 

high, 
"Wlien  the  slight  covering  of  her  neck 

slips  by. 
There  half   revealing  to  the    eager 

sight. 
Her   full,    ripe    bosom,    exquisitely 

white  ? 


42- 


BLOOMFIELD. 


In  many  a  local    tale  of    harmless 

mirth, 
And    many    a    jest    of   momentary 

birth, 
She  bears  a  part,  and  as  v\\q  stops  to 

speak, 

Bs  bacl 

glowing  cheek. 


TO  HIS  MOTHEirS  SPINDLE. 

The  hand  that  wore  thee  smooth  is 

cold,  and  spins 
No    more!     Debility  pressed   hard, 

around 
The  seat  of  life,  and  terrors  filled  her 

brain,  — 
Nor  causeless  terrors.     Giants  giim 

and  bold. 
Three    mighty   ones    she   feared  to 

meet:  —  they  came  — 
WiNTEK,  Old  Age,  and  Poverty, 

—  all  came: 


And  when  Death  beheld 
Her  tribulation,  he  fulfilled  his  task. 
And  to  her  trembling  hand  and  heart 

at  once. 
Cried,  '*  Spin  no  more.'^ — Thou  then 

wert  left  half  filled 
With  this  soft  downy  fleece,  such  as 

she  wound 
Through  all  her  days,  she  who  could 

spin  so  well. 
Half  filled  wert  thou  —  half  finished 

when  she  died! 
—  Half  finished  ?    'Tis  the  motto  of 

the  world ! 
We  spin  vain  threads,   and  strive, 

and  die 
With  sillier  things  than  spindles  on 

our  hands! 

Then  feeling,  as  1  do,  resistlessly. 
The  bias  set  upon  my  soul  for  verse ; 
Oh,  should  old  age  still  find  my  brain 

at  work. 
And  Death,  o'er  some  poor  fragment 

striding,  cry 
"Holdl     spin     no     morel"    grant. 

Heaven,  that  purity 


Of  thought  and  texture,  may  assimi- 
late 

That  fragment  unto  thee,  in  useful- 
ness, 

In  worth,  and  snowy  innocence. 
Then  shall 

The  village  school-mistress,  shine 
brighter  through 

The  exit  of  her  boy;  and  both  shall 
live. 

And  virtue  triumph  too;  and  vhtue's 
tears. 

Like  Heaven's  pure  blessings,  fall 
upon  their  grave. 


LOVE  OF  THE  COUNTRY. 

[Written  at  Clare  Hall,  Herts,  Juue,  1804.] 

Welcome,  silence!  welcome,  peace! 

Oh,  most  welcome,  holy  shade! 
Thus  I  prove,  as  years  increase, 

My  heart  and  soul  for  quiet  made. 
Thus  [.fix  my  firm  belief 

While  rapture's  rushing  tears  de- 
scend, 
That  every  flower  and  every  leaf 

Is  moral  Truth's  unerring  friend. 

I  would  not  for  a  world  of  gold 

That  Nature's  lovely  face  should 
tire; 
Fountain  of  blessings  yet  untold: 

Pure  source  of  intellectual  fire! 
Fancy's  fair  buds,  the  germs  of  song, 

Unquickened  midst  the  world's  rude 
strife. 
Shall  sweet  retirement  render  strong, 

And  morning  silente  bring  to  life. 

Then  tell  me  not  that  I  shall  grow 
Forlorn,  that  fields  and  woods  wiO 
cloy ; 
From  Nature  and  her  changes  flow 

An  evei-lasting  tide  of  joy. 
I  grant  that  summer  heats  will  1  urn, 
That  keen   will   come   the   t:Osty 
night; 
But  both  shall  please:  and  e?  h  in 
turn 
Yield  Reason's  most  supreir^  de- 
light. 


BOKER. 


4S 


Build  me  a  shrine,  and  I  could  kneel 
To  rural  gods,  or  prostrate  fall ; 

Did  I  not  see,  did  I  not  feel, 
That  one  Great  Spthit  governs  all. 

O  Heaven,  permit  that  I  may  lie 


Where  o'er  my  corse  green  branches 
wave; 
And  those  who  from  life's  tumult  fly 
With  kindred  feelings,   press  my 
grave. 


GLEANERS  SONG. 

Dear  Ellen,  your  tales  are  all  plenteously  stored 
With  the  joys  of  some  bride,  and  the  wealth  of  her  lord; 

Of  her  chariots  and  dresses, 

And  worlilly  caresses. 
And  servants  that  fly  when  she's  waited  upon: 
But  what  can  she  boast  if  she  weds  unbeloved  ? 
Can  she  e'er  feel  the  joy  that  one  morning  I  proved, 
When  I  put  on  ray  new  gown  and  waited  for  John  ? 

These  fields,  my  dear  Ellen,  I  knew  them  of  yore, 
Yet  to  me  they  ne'er  look'd  so  enchanting  before; 

The  distant  bells  ringing, 

The  birds  round  us  singing, 
For  pleasure  is  pure  when  affection  is  won: 
They  told  me  the  troubles  and  cares  of  a  wife ; 
But  I  loved  him ;  and  that  was  the  j)ride  of  my  life, 
When  I  put  on  my  new  gow^n  and  waited  for  John. 

He  shouted  and  ran,  as  he  leapt  from  the  stile ; 
And  what  in  my  bosom  was  passing  the  while  ? 

For  love  knows  the  blessing 

Of  ardent  caressing, 
When  virtue  inspires  us,  and  doubts  are  all  gone. 
The  sunshine  of  Fortune  you  say  is  divine; 
True  love  and  the  sunshine  of  Nature  were  mine, 
When  I  put  on  my  new  gown  and  waited  for  John. 


George  Henry  Boker. 


ODE    TO  A  MOUNTAIN  OAK. 

Proud  mountain  giant,  whose  majes- 
tic face. 

From  thy  high  watch-tower  on  the 
steadfast  rock, 

Looks  calmly    o'er   the    trees   that 
throng  thy  base, 

How  long  hast  thou  withstood  the 
tempest's  shock  ? 

How  long  hast  thou  looked  down  on 
yonder  vale 
Sleeping  in  sun  before  thee ; 


Or  bent  thy  ruffled  brow,  to  let  the 
gale 
Steer  Its  white,  drifting  sails  just 
o'er  thee  ? 

Strong  link  'twixt  vanished  ages! 
Thou  hast  a  sage   and    reverend 
look: 
As  if  life's  struggle,  through  its 
varied  stages. 
Were    stamped  on  thee,   as  in  a 
book. 


44 


BOKER. 


Thou  hast  no  voice  to  tell  what  thou 
hast  seen, 

Save  a  low  moaning  in  thy  troubled 
leaves ; 

And  canst  but  point  thy  scars,  and 
shake  thy  head. 

With  solemn  warning,  in  the  sun- 
beam's sheen; 

And  show  how  Time  the  mightiest 
thing  bereaves, 

By  the  sere  leaves  that  rot  upoit  thy 
bed. 

Type  of  long-suffering  power! 

Even  in  my  gayest  hour, 
Thou  'dst  still  my  tongue,  and  send 

my  spirit  far. 
To  wander  in  a  labyrinth  of  thought ; 
For    thou    hast    waged    with    Time 

unceasing  war, 
And  out  of  pain  hast  strength  and 

beauty  brought. 
"Thou  amidst  storms  and   tempests 

hadst  thy  birth. 
Upon  these  bleak  and  scantly-shel- 

tering  rocks, 
Nor    much    save    storm  and   wrath 

hast  known  on  earth; 
Yet  nobly  hast  thou  bode  the  fiercest 

shocks. 
That    Circumstance    can    pour    on 

patient  Worth. 

I  see  thee  springing,  in  the  vernal 
time, 

A  sapling  weak,  from  out  the  bar- 
ren stone, 

To  dance  with  May  upon  the  moun- 
tain peak : 

Pale  leaves  put  forth  to  greet  the 
genial  clime. 

And  roots  shot  down  life's  suste- 
nance to  seek. 

While    mere    existence    was    a    joy 
alone  — 
O  thou  wert  happy  then ! 

On  summer's  heat  thy  tinkling  leaf- 
lets fed, 

Each  fibre  toughened,  and  a  little 
crown 

Of  green  upon  thy  modest  brow  was 
spread, 

To  catch  the  rain,  and  shake  it  gently 
down. 


But  then  came  autumn,  when 
Thy  dry  and  tattered  leaves  fell 
dead ; 
And  sadly  on  the  gale 
Thou    drop' dst    them    one    by 
one  — 
Drop' dst    them,   witli  a  low,   sad 
wail. 
On  the  cold,  unfeeling  stone. 
Next  Winter  seized  thee  in  his  iron 
grasp. 
And  shook  thy  bruised  and  strain- 
ing form ; 
Or  locked  thee   in  his  icicle's  cold 

clasp. 
And  piled  upon  thy  head  the  shorn 

cloud's  snowy  fleece. 
Wert  thou  not  joyful,  in  this  bitter 

storm. 
That  the  green  honors,  which  erst 

decked  thy  head. 
Sage    Autumn's    slow    decay,    had 

mildly  shed  ? 
Else,  with  their  weight,  they'd  given 

thy  ills  increase. 
And  dragged  thee  helpless  from  thy 
uptorn  bed. 


Year  after  year,  in  kind  or  adverse 
fate. 

Thy    branches    stretched,    and    thy 
young  twigs  put  forth. 

Nor    changed  thy  nature  with  the 
season's  date: 

Whether  thou  wrestled' st  with  the 
gusty  north. 

Or  beat  the  driving  rain  to  glittering 
froth. 

Or  shook  the  snow-storm  from  thy 
arms  of  might. 

Or  drank  the  balmy  dews  on  sum- 
mer's night;  — 

Laughing  in  sunshine,  writhing  in 
the  storm. 
Yet  wert  thou  still  the  same! 
Summer  spread  forth  thy  tower- 
ing form. 
And  Winter  strengthened  thy  great 
frame. 
Achieving  thy  destiny 
On  went'st  thou  sturdily, 

Shaking  thy  green  flags  in  triumph 
and  jubilee! 


BOKER. 


45 


Frcm     thy    secure    and    sheltering 

branch 
The  wild  bird  pours  her  glad  and 

fearless  lay, 
That,  with  the  sunbeams,  falls  upon 

the  vale, 
Adding  fresh  brightness  to  the  smile 

of  day, 
'Neath  those  broad  boughs  the  youth 

has  told  love's  tale; 
And  thou  hast  seen  his  hardy  feat- 
ures blanch, 
Heard  his  snared  heart  beat  like  a 

prisoned  bird. 
Fluttering    with    fear,    before    the 

fowler  laid; 
While  his  bold  figure  shook  at  every 

word — 
The    strong    man    trembling    at    a 

timid  maid! 
And    thou    hast  smiled  upon  their 

children's  play: 
Seen  them  grow  old,  and  gray,  and 

pass  away. 


Heard  the  low  prattle  of  the  thought- 
less child, 
Age's  cold  wisdom,  and  the  lessons 

mild 
Which  patient  mothers  to  their  off- 
spring say;  — 
Yet  art  thou  still  the  same! 

"Man  2uay  decay ; 
Race  after  race  may  pass  away; 
The  great  may  perish,  and  their  very 
fame 
Rot  day  by  day  — 
Rot  noteless  with  their  once  inspired 
clay: 
Still,  as  at  their  birth. 
Thou  stretchest  thy  long  arms  above 
the  earth  — 
Type  of  unbending  Will! 
Type    of    majestic,    self-sustaining 

Power! 
Elate  in  sunshine,  firm  when  tem- 
pests lower, 
May  thy  calm  strength  my  wavering 
spirit  fill! 
O  let  me  learn  from  thee, 
Thou  proud  and  steadfast  tree, 
To  bear   unmunnuring  what    stern 
Time  may  send; 


Nor  'neath  life's  ruthless  tempests 
bend : 
But  cahnly  stand  like  thee, 
Though  wrath  and  storm  shake 
me, 
Though    vernal    hopes    in    yellow 

Autumn  end. 
And  strong  in  truth  work  out  my 
destiny. 
Type  of  long-suffering  Power! 
Type  of  unbending  Will! 
Strong  in  the  tempest's  hour. 
Bright  when  the  storm  is  still; 
Rising  from  every  contest  with  an 

unbroken  heart. 
Strengthened     by    every     struggle, 
emblem  of  might  thou  art! 
Sign  of  what  man  can  compass,  spite 

of  an  adverse  state, 
Still,  from  thy  rocky  summit,  teach 
us  to  war  with  fate! 


AWAKIXG   OF  THE   POETICAL 
FACULTY. 

All  day  I  heard  a  humming  in  my 

ears, 
A  buzz  of  many  voices,  and  a  throng 
Of    swarming    numbers,    passing 

with  a  song 
Measured  and  stately  as  the  rolling 

spheres'. 
I  saw  the    sudden    light    of    lifted 

spears. 
Slanted  at  once  against  some  mon- 
ster wrong; 
And  then  a  fluttering  scarf  which 

might  belong 
To    some    sweet    maiden    in    her 

morn  of  years. 
I  felt  the  chilling  damp  of  simless 

glades, 
Horrid    with    gloom;    anon,    the 

breath  of  May 
Was  blown  around  me,    and  the 

lulling  play 
Of    dripping    fountains.     Yet    the 

lights  and  shades, 
The    waving    scarfs,   the    battle's 

grand  parades, 
Seemed    but    vague    shadows   of 

that  wondrous  lay. 


46 


BOKEB. 


TO  ENGLAND. 

Stand,  tliou  great  bulwark  of  man's 

liberty ! 
Thou  rock  of  shelter  rising  from 

the  wave, 
Sole    refuge   to    the    overwearied 

brave 
Who  planned,  arose,  and  battled  to 

be  free, 
Fell  undeterred,  then   sadly  turned 

to  thee ;  — 
Saved  the  free  spirit  from  their 

country's  grave. 
To    rise  again,   and  animate   the 

slave, 
When  God  shall  ripen  all  things. 

Britons,  ye 
Who  guard  the  sacred  outpost,  not 

in  vain 
Hold  your  proud  peril!    Freemen 

untlefiled. 
Keep  watch  and  ward!   Let  battle- 
ments be  piled 
Around  your  cliffs;  fleets  marshalled, 

till  the  main 
Sink  under    them;    and    if    your 

courage  wane, 
Through  force  oi'  fraud,  look  west- 
ward to  your  child ! 


LOVE  SONNETS. 

How  canst  thou  call  my  modest  love 
impure, 
Being  thyself  the  holy  source  of 

air? 

Can  ugly  darkness  from  the  fair 

sun  fall  ? 
Or  nature's  compact  be  so  insecure, 
That    saucy   weeds   may  sprout  up 

and  endure 
Where  gentle  flowers  were  sown  ? 

The  brooks  that  crawl, 
With  lazy  whispers,  through  the 

lilies  tall. 
Or  rattle    o'er  the    pebbles,    will 

allure 
With  no  feigned  sweetness,  if  their 

fount  be  sweet. 
So  thou,  the  sun  whence  all  my 

light  doth  flow  — 


Thou,  sovereign  law  by  wliich  my 

fancies  grow  — 
Thou,  fount  of  every  feeling,  slow  or 

fleet  — 
Against    thyself  would'st    aim    a 

treacherous  blow. 
Slaying  thy  honor  with  thy  own 

conceit. 


Why  shall  I  chide  the  hand  cf  wil- 
ful Time 
When    he  assaults  thy  wondrous 

store  of  charms  ? 
Why  charge  the  gray-beard  with  a 

wanton  crime  ? 
Or  strive  to  daunt  him  with  my 

shrill  alarms  ? 
Or  seek  to  lull  him    with    a    silly 

rhyme : 
So  he,  forgetful,  pause  upon  his 

arms, 
And    leave  thy  beauties  in   their 

noble  prime, 
The  sole  survivors  of  his  grievous 

harms  ? 
Alas!  my  love,   though  Fll   indeed 

bemoan 
The  fatal  ruin  of  thy  majesty ; 
Yet  I'll  remember  that  to  Time 

alone 
T  owed  thy  birth,  thy  chaiTus'  matu- 
rity. 
Thy  crowning  love,  with  which  he 

vested  me. 
Nor  can   reclaim,  though  all  the 

rest  be  flown. 

In  this  deep  hush  and  quiet  of  my 

soul, 
When  life  runs  low,  and  all  my 

senses  stay 
Their  daily  riot;  when  my  wearied 

clay 
Resigns  its  functions,  and,  without 

control 
Of  selfish  passion,  my  essential  whole 
Rises  in  purity,  to  make  survey 
Of  those  poor  deeds  that  wear  my 

days  away; 
When   in  my  ear  I  hear  the  dis- 
tant toll 
Of  bells  that  munnur  of  my  coming 

knell. 


BOKER. 


47 


And  all  things  seem  a  show  and 

mockery  —    . 
Life,  and  life's  actions,  noise  and 
vanity; 
I  ask  my  mournful  heart  if  it  can  tell 
If  all  be  truth  which  1  protest  to 
•         thee: 
And  my  heart  answers,  solemnly, 
'"Tis  well." 


I  HAVE  been  mounted  on  life's  top- 
most wave, 

Until  my  forehead  kissed  the  daz- 
zling cloud  ; 

I  have  been  dashed  beneath  the 
murky  shroud 

That  yawns   between  the  watery 
crests.     1  rave. 
Sometimes,     like     cursed     Orestes; 
sometimes  lave 

My  limbs  in  dews  of  asphodel;  or, 
bowed 

With  torrid  heat,  I  moan  to  heaven 
aloud, 

Or  shrink  with  Winter  in  his  icy 
cave. 
Now  peace  broods  over  me ;  now  sav- 
age rage 

Spurns  me  across  the  world.     Nor 
am  I  fi  ee 

From    nightly  visions,   when  the 
pictured  page 
Of  sleep  imfolds  its  varied  leaves  to 
me. 

Changing  as  often  as  the  mimic 
stage ;  — 
And  all  this,  lady,  through  my  love 
for  thee ! 


Sometimes,  in  bitter  fancy,  I  bewail 

This  spell  of  love,  and  wish  the 
cause  removed ; 

Wish  I  had  never  seen,  or,  seeing, 
not  loved 

So  utterly  that  passion  should  pre- 
vail 
O'er    self-regard,   and    thoughts    of 
thee  assail 

Those    inmost  barriers  which  so 
long  have  proved 

Unconquerable,  when  such  defence 
behoved. 


But,    ah!    my   treacherous    heart 
doth  ever  fail 
To  ratify  the  sentence  of  my  mind ; 

For  when  conviction  strikes  me  to 
the  core, 

I  swear  1  love  thee  fondlier  than 
before ; 
And  were  1  now  all  free  and  uncon- 
iined, 

Loose  as  the  action  of  the  shore- 
less wind. 

My  slavish  heart  would  sigh  for 
bonds  once  more. 


Ah!    let    me  live    on  memories  of 

old,— 
The  precious  relics  1  have  set  aside 
From  life's  poor  venture;  things 

that  yet  abide 
My  ill-paid  labor,  shining,  like  pure 

gold. 
Amid  the  dross  of   cheated    hopes 

whose  hold 
Dropped  at  the  touch  of  action. 

Let  me  glide 
Down    the    smooth    past,    review 

that  day  of  pride 
When    each  to  each  our  mutual 

passion  told — 
When  love  grew  frenzy  in  thy  blaz- 
ing eye, 
Fear  shone  heroic,  caution  quailed 

before 
My    hot,   resistless  kisses  —  when 

we  bore 
Time,    conscience,    destiny,    down, 

down  for  aye. 
Beneath  victorious  love,  and  thou 

didst  cry. 
"  Strike,   God  !  life's  cup  is  run- 
ning o'er  and  o'er  " 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER. 

Close  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman. 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun. 
Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 


48 


BONAR. 


As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever,  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  I 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 
Koll  the  drum  and   fire  the  vol- 
ley! 

What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 
What  but  death-bemockiug  folly  ? 


Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye,  ^ 
Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made 
him. 
Mortal  love  w^eeps  idly  by: 
God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low  I 


HORATIUS    BONAR. 


A  LITTLE  WHILE. 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 

I  shall  be  soon ; 
Beyond  tlie  waking  and  the  sleeping. 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 

.     I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Siceet  hope  ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

I  shall  be  soon ; 

Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading. 

Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

I  shall  be  soon, 

Love,  rest,  and  home! 

Sweet  hope  ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting. 

Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Sweet  hoj)e  ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  gatheringand  the  strowing 

I  shall  be  soon ; 
Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing. 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 

I  shall  be  soon. 


Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Sweet  hope  1 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

I  shall  be  soon ; 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  pulse's  fever-beating, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  I 
Sweet  hope  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  frost-chain  and  the  fever 

I  shall  be  soon; 
Beyond  the  rock-waste  and  the  river, 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home! 
Sweet  hope  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 


THE  INNER  CALM. 

Calm  rrie,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 
While  these  hot  breezes  blow ; 

Be  like  the  night-dew's  cooling  balm 
Upon  earth's  fevered  brow. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm. 
Soft  resting  on  Ihy  breast; 

Soothe  me  with  holy  hymn  and  psalm 
And  bid  my  spirit  rest. 


BO  ST  WICK. 


49 


Calm   me,   my   God,  and   keep  me 
calm, 

Let  thine  outstretched  wing 
Be  like  the  shade  of  Elim's  palm 

Beside  her  desert  spring. 

Yes,  keep  me  calm,  though  loud  and 
rude. 

The  sounds  my  ear  that  greet, 
Calm  in  the  closet's  solitude. 

Calm  in  the  bustling  street ; 

Calm  in  the  hour  of  buoyant  health, 

Calm  in  my  hour  of  pain, 
Calm  in  my  poverty  or  wealth, 

Calm  in  my  loss  or  gain; 


Calm  in  the  sufferance  of  wrong. 
Like  Him  who  bore  my  shanie, 

Calm  mid  the  threatening,  taunting 
throng. 
\Vlio  hate  thy  holy  name ; 

Calm  when  the  great  world's  news 
with  power 

My  listening  spirit  stir; 
Let  not  the  tidings  of  the  hour 

E'er  find  too  fond  an  ear; 

Calm  as  the  ray  of  sun  or  star 
Which  storms  assail  in  vain, 

Moving  unruffled  through  earth's  war, 
The  eternal  calm  to  gain. 


Helen   Barron   Bostwick. 


URVASI. 

'Tis  a  story  told  by  Kalidasa, — 

Hindoo  poet— in  melodious  rhyme, 
How  with  train  of  maidens,  young 
Urvasi 
Came  to  keep  great  Indra's  festal 
time. 

'T  was  her  part  in  worshipful  confes- 
sion 
Of  the  god-name  on  that  sacred  day. 
Walking  flower-crowned  in  the  long 
procession, 
"1  love  Puru-shotta-ma "  to  say. 

Pure  as  snow  on  Himalayan  ranges, 
Heaven-descended,  soon  to  heaven 
withdrawn. 
Fairer  than  the  moon-flower  of  the 
Ganges, 
Was  Urvasi,  Daughter  of  the  Dawn. 

But    it    happened    that    the    gentle 
maiden 
Loved    one    Puru  -  avas,  —  fateful 
name!  — 
And  her  heart,  with  its  sweet  secret 
laden, 
Faltered  when  her  time  of  utter- 
ance came. 


I  love"  —  then  she  stopjped,   and 
people  wondered; 
love" — she 
secret  well ; 
Then  from  sweetest  lips  that  ever 
blundered, 
"  I  love  Puru-avas,"  trembling  fell. 

Ah,  what  terror  seized  on  poor  Ur- 
vasi! 
Misty  grew  the  violets  of  her  eyes. 
And  her  form  bent  like  a  broken  daisy 
Whil^  around  her  rose  the  mocking 
cries. 

But   great   Indra  said,    **  The   maid 
shall  marry 
Him  whose  image  in  her  faithful 
heart 
She  so  near  to  that  of  God  doth  carry. 
Scarce    her    lips    can    keep    their 
names  apart." 

Call  it  then  not  weakness  or  dissem- 
bling 
If,  in  striving  the  high  name  to 
reach, 
Through  our  voices  runs  the  tender 
trembling 
Of  an  earthly  name  too  dear  for 
speech ! 


50 


BOTTA  —  BOURDILLON. 


Ever  dwells  the  lesser  in  the  great- 

Know he  holds  Love's  simplest  stam 

er; 

mering  sweeter 

In  God's  love  the  human:   we  by 

Than  cold  phrase  of  wordy  Phar. 

these 

isees. 

Anna  Lynch   Botta. 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  BEE. 

The  honey-bee  that  wanders  all  day 
long 

The  field,  the  woodland,  and  the  gar- 
den o'er, 

To  gather  in  his  fragrant  winter 
store ; 

Humming  In  calm  content  his  quiet 
song, 

Seeks  not  alone  the  rose's  glowing 
breast. 

The  lily's  dainty  cup,  the  violet's  lips. 

But  from  all  rank  and  noxious  weeds 
he  sips, 

The  single  drop  of  sweetness  closely 
pressed 

Within  the  poison  chalice.  Thus,  if 
we. 

Seek  only  to  draw  forth  the  hidden 
sweet 

In  all  the  varied  human  flowers  we 
meet 

In  the  wide  garden  of  humanity, 

And,  like  the  bee,  if  home  the  spoil 
we  bear. 

Hived  in  our  hearts,  it  turns  to  nec- 
tar there. 


LOVE. 

Go  forth  in  life,  O  friend !  not  seeking 
love, 
A  mendicant  that  with  imploring 

eye 
And  outstretched  hand  asks  of  the 
passers-by 
The  alms  his  strong  necessities  may 

move : 
For  such  poor  love,  to  pity  near  allied, 
Thy  generous  spirit  may  not  stoop 
and  wait, 
A  suppliant  whose  prayer  may  be 
denied  [gate: 

Like  a  spurned  beggar's  at  a  palace- 
But  thy  heart's  affluence  lavish  un- 
controlled, — 
The  largess  of  thy  love  give  full 
and  free, 
As  monarchs  in  their  progress  scatter 
gold; 
And  be  thy  heart  like  the  exhaust- 
less  sea. 
That  nuist  its  wealth  of  cloud  and 

dew  bestow, 
Though  tributary  strea'ms  or  ebb  or 
flow. 


Francis  W.  Bourdillon. 


LIGHT. 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  has  but  one ; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes. 

And  the  heart  but  one ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  its  day  is  done. 


LOVE'S  REWARD. 

For  Love  I  labored  all  the  day. 
Through  morning  chill  and  midday 
heat. 
For  surely  with  the  evening  gray, 
I  thought,  Love's  guerdon  shall  be 
sweet. 

At  eventide,  with  weary  limb, 
1  brought  my  labors  to  the  spot 


BOWLES. 


51 


Wliere  Love  had  bid  me  come  to  him ; 
Thither  I  came,  but  found  him  not. 

For  he  with  idle  folks  had  gone 
To  dance  the  hours  of  night  away; 

And  I  that  toiled  was  left  alone, 
Too  w  eary  now  to  dance  or  play. 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

Sweeter  thaji  voices  in  the  scented 

hay, 
Or  laughing  children  gleaning  eai*s 

that  stray, 


Or  Christmas  songs  that  shake  the 

snows  above, 
Is  the   first  cuckoo,  when  lie  comes 

with  love. 


Sadder  than  birds  in  sunless  summer 

eves, 
Or  drip  of  rain-drops  on  the  fallen 

leaves. 
Or  wail  of  wintry  waves  on  frozen 

shore, 
Is  spring  that  comes,  but  brings  us 

love  no  more. 


William   Lisle   Bowles. 


TO  TIME. 

0  Time!  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand 

to  lay 
Softest    on   sorrow's    wound,   and 

slowly  thence  — 
Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weaiy 

sense  — 
The  faint  pang  stealest,  unperceived 

away ; 
On  thee  1  rest  my  only  hope  at  last, 
And   think  when  thou  hast  dried  j 

the  bitter  tear  j 

That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul 

held  dear, 

1  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past. 
And  meet  life's  peaceful  evening  with 

a  smile  — 
As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  depart- 
ing hour,  [shower, 

Sings  in  the  sunbeam  of  the  transient 

Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet 
the  while: 

Yet,  ah!  how  nuich  must  that  poor 
heart  endure 

\Miich   hopes  from  thee,   and  thee 
aloue,  a  cure! 


THE  GREENWOOD. 

Oh!  when  'tis  summer  weather, 
And    the    yellow   bee,    with    fairy 
sound, 
The  waters  clear  is  humming  round. 
And  the  cuckoo  sings  unseen. 
And  the  leaves  are  waving  green, — 
Oh !  then  't  is  sweet. 
In  some  retreat, 
To  hear  the  murmuring  dove. 
With  those  whom  on  earth  alone  we 

love. 
And  to  wind  through  the  greenwood 
together. 

But  when  'tis  winter  weather, 
And  crosses  grieve. 
And  friends  deceive, 
And  rain  and  sleet 
The  lattice  beat,— 
Oh!  then  't  is  sweet, 
To  sit  and  sing 

Of  the  friends   with   whom,  in  the 
days  of  Spring, 

We  roamed  through  the  greenwood 
together. 


52 


BRACKETT—  BRAINARD. 


Anna   C.   Brackett. 

IN  GA/l  FIE  ID'S    DANG  En. 

Is  it  not  possible,  that  all  the  love 

From  all  these  iiilllioii  hearts,  which  breathless  turns 

To  one  hushed  room  when?  silent  footsteps  move, 

May  have  some  power  on  life  that  feebly  burns  ? 

Must  it  not  have  some  power  in  some  strange  way, 

Some  strange,  wise  way,  beyond  our  tangled  ken, 

When  far  and  wide,  from  sea  to  sea  to-day, 

Even  in  (luiet  fields,  hard-handed  men 

Pause  in  their  toil  to  ask  the  passer-by 

'•  What  news  ?"  and  then,  "  We  cannot  spare  him  yet!'* 

Surely  no  tide  can  powerless  rise  so  high. 

Bear  on,  brave  heart!    The  land  does  not  forget. 

Thou  yet  shalt  be  upborne  to  life  and  strength  again 

On  this  flood-tide  of  love  of  millions  of  brave  men. 


Mary   E.   Bradley. 

BEYOND   RECALL. 


There  was  a  time  when  death  and  1 
Met  face  to  face  together : 

1  w-as  but  young  indeed  to  die. 
And  it  was  summer  weather; 

One  happy  year  a  wedded  wife, 

Yet  I  was  slipping  out  of  life. 

You  knelt  beside  me,  and  I  heard, 
As  from  some  far-off  distance, 

A  bitter  cry  that  dimly  stirred 
My  soul  to  make  resistance. 


You  thought  me  dead:   you  called 

my  name, 
And  back  from  Death  itself  I  came. 

But  oh !  that  you  had  made  no  sign, 
That  1  had  heard  no  crying  ! 

For  now  the  yearning  voice  Is  mine, 
And  there  is  no  replying: 

Death  never  coidd  so  cruel  be 

As  Life  —  and  you  —  have  proved  to 


John   G.  C.  Brainard. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

1  SAW  two  clouds  at  morning, 

Tinged  by  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on. 

And  mingled  into  one;  [blest. 

1  thought  that  morning  cloud  was 
It  moved  so  swsetly  to  the  west. 

1  saw  two  summer  curients 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 

And  join  their  course  with  silent  force, 
In  peace  each  other  greeting; 


Calm  was  their  course  through  banks 
of  green, 

While  dimpling  eddies  played  be- 
tween. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 

Till  life'a  last  pulse  shall  beat ; 
Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer's 
stream , 
Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
A   calmer  sea,   where  storms    shall 

cease  — 
A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 


BRANCH—  BnONT± 


53 


Mary  Bolles  Branch. 


THE  PETRIFIED   FEliN. 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 
Grew  a  little  fern-leaf,  green  and 

slender, 
Veining  delicate  and  fibres  tender; 
Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down 

so  low; 
Rushes  tall,  and  moss,  and  grass 

grew  round  it. 
Playful  sunbeams  darted  in  and 

found  it, 
Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night, 

and  crowned  it. 
But  no  foot  of  man  e'er  trod  that 

way; 
Earth  was  young  and  keeping  holi- 
day. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 

{Stately  forests  waved  their  giant 
branches. 

Mountains  hurled  their  snowy  ava- 
lanches, 
Mammoth    creatures  stalked  across 
the  plain ; 

Nature  revelled  in  grand  mysteries; 

But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these. 

Did  not  number  with  the  hills  and 
trees. 

Only    grew    and    waved    its    wild 
sweet  way. 

No  one  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 


Earth,   one  time,   put    on    a    frolic 

mood, 
Heaved  the  locks  and  changed  the 

mighty  motion 
Of  the  deep,  strong  currents  of  the 

ocean ; 
Moved    the    plain    and    shook    the 

haughty  wood. 
Crushed    the    little    form  in   soft 

moist  clay, 
Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away, 
O,  the  long,  long  centuries  since 

that  day  ! 
O,  the  agony,  O,  life's  bitter  cost, 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  was 

lost ! 

Useless  !      Lost !      There    came    a 

thoughtful  man 
Searching  Nature's  secrets,  far  and 

deep ; 
From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 
He    withdrew   a  stone,  o'er  which 

there  ran 
Fairy  pencillings,  a  quaint  design, 
Veinings,  leafage,  fibres  clear  and 

fine, 
And  the  feni's  life  lay  in  every 

line  ! 
So,  I  think,  God  hides  some  soids 

away. 
Sweetly  to  surprise  us  the  last  day. 


Anne  Bronte. 


IF  THIS  BE  ALL. 

O  God!  if  this  indeed  be  all 

That  life  can  show  to  me; 
If  on  my  aching  brow  may  fall 

No  freshening  dew  from  Thee ;  - 
If  with  no  brigjiter  light  than  this 

The  lamp  of  Hope  may  glow, 
And  I  may  only  dream  of  bliss. 

And  wake  to  weary  woe  I  — 
If  friendship's  solace  must  decay 

When  other  joys  are  gone, 


And  love  must  keep  so  far  away, 

While  I  go  wandering  on, — 
Wandering  and  toiling  without  gain, 

The  slav-e  of  others'  will, 
With  constant  care  and  frequent  pain, 

Despised,  forgotten  still. 
Grieving  to  look  on  vice  and  sin, 

Yet  powerless  to  quell 
The  silent  current  from  within, 

The  outward  torrent's  swell; 
While  all  the  good  I  would  impart 

The  feelings  1  would  share, 


54 


DRONT^. 


Are  driven  backward  to  my  heart 
And  turned  to  wormwood  there ;  — 

If  clouds  must  ever  keep  from  sight 
The  glories  of  the  sun, 

And  I  must  suffer  winter's  blight 


Ere  sunnner  is  begun;  — 
If  life  must  be  so  full  of  care, 

Then  call  me  soon  to  Thee! 
Or  give  me  strength  enough  to  bear 

My  load  of  misery. 


Charlotte  Bronte. 


LIFE    WILL    BE   GONE    ERE    I 
HAVE  LIVED. 

Life  will  be  gone  ere  1  have  lived; 

Where  now  is  life's  first  prime  ? 
I've  worked  and  studied,  longed  and 
grieved 

Through  all  that  busy  time. 


To  toil,  to  think,  to  long,  to  grieve  — 

Is  such  my  future  fate  ? 
The  morn  was  dreary,  must  the  eve 

Be  also  desolate  ? 
Well,  such  a  life  at  least  makes  Death 

A  welcome,  wished-for  friend ; 
Then  aid  me,  Reason,  Patience,  Faith, 

To  suffer  to  the  end. 


Emily   Bront^. 


LAST  LINES. 

No  coward  soul  is  mine. 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm- 
troubled  sphere: 
I  see  heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  Faith  shines  equal,  arming  me 
from  fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast. 
Almighty,  ever  present  Deity  ! 

Life  —  that  in  me  has  rest, 
As   I  —  undying   Life  — have  power 
in  thee  ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 

That  move  men's  hearts;  unutterably 

vain 

Worthless  as  withered  weeds. 

Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless 

main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity; 

So  sureiy  anchoied  on 
The  steadfast  I'ock  of  immortality. 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 


Pervades  and  broods  above. 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates, 
and  rears. 

Though  earth    and    man    were 
gone. 
And  suns  and  imiverses  ceased  to  be. 

And  Thou  wert  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  ren- 
der void : 
Thou  —  Thou    art     Being    and 
Breath, 
And  what  Thou  art  may  never  be 
destroyed. 


REMEMBRANCE. 


deep 


Cold  in  the  earth  —  and  the 
snow  piled  above  thee, 

Far,  far  removed,  cold  in  the  dreary 
grave !  [thee, 

Have  I  forgot,  my  only  Love,  to  love 

Severed  at  last  by  Time's  all-severing 
wave  ? 


BROOKS. 


55 


Now,  wlien  alono,  do  my  thoughts 
no  longer  hover 

Over  the  mountains,  on  that  north- 
ern shore. 

Resting  their  wings  where  heath  and 
fern-leaves  cover 

Thy  noble  heart  for  ever,  ever  more  ? 

Cold  In  the  earth  —  and  fifteen  wild 

Decembers, 
From  these  brown  hills,  have  melted 

into  spring: 
Faithful,  in Jeed,   is  the  spirit  that 

remembers  [fering! 

After  such  years  of  change  and  suf- 

Sweet  Love  of  youth,  forgive,  if  I 

forget  thee, 
Wliile  the  world's  tide  is  bearing  me 

along; 
Other  desires  and  other  hopes  beset 

me, 
Hopes  which  obscure,  but  cannot  do 

thee  wrong ! 

No  later  light  has  lightened  up  my 

heaven. 
No  second  morn  has  ever  shone  for 

me; 


All  my  life's  bliss  from  thy  dear  life 

was  given,  |lhee 

All  my  life's  bliss  is  in  the  grave  with 

But,  when  the  days  of  golden  dreams 

had  perished, 
And  even  Despair  was  powerless  to 

destroy ; 
Then  did  1  learn  how  existence  could 

be  cherished. 
Strengthened,  and  fed  without  the 

aid  of  joy. 

Then  did  I  check  the  tears  of  useless 
passion  — 

Weaned  my  young  soul  from  yearn- 
ing after  thine; 

Sternly  denied  its  burning  wish  to 
hasten  |mine. 

Down  to  that  tomb  already  more  than 

And,  even  yet,  I  dare  not  let  it  lan- 
guish, 

Dare  not  indulge  in  memory's  raptu- 
rous pain; 

Once  drinking  deep  of  that  divinest 
anguish. 

How  could  1  seek  the  empty  world 
asrain  ? 


Maria  Gowen  Brooks. 


[From  Zophiel.] 
SOXG   OF  EGLA. 

Day,  in  melting  pui*ple  dying; 
Blossoms,  all  ai-ound  me  sighing; 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying; 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing; 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress; 

1  am  sick  of  loneliness! 

Thou,  to  whom  1  love  to  hearken, 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou'rt  true,  and  I'll  believe  thee; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent, 
Let  me  think  it  innocent! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure; 
All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasure; 


Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling,  — 
Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling; 
Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me, 
I  would  only  look  on  thee! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling. 

Ecstasy,  but  in  revealing; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation. 

Rapture  in  participation ; 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 
In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still !  Ah !  come  and  bless  me ! 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee. 

Once  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee; 

Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee. 
In  a  look  \i  death  there  be, 
Come,  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee! 


56 


BROWN. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  DESPAIR. 

The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  formed 
a  soul  I  meet 

WiLhouL  its  own  peculiar  mate,  to 
Its    wandering    half,  when    ripe  to 
crown  the  whole 
Bright  plan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly, 
most  complete! 
But  thousand  evil  things  there  are 
that  hate  [impede, 

To  look  on  happiness ;  these  hurt, 
And,  leagued  with  time,  space,  cir- 
cumstance, and  fate, 
Keep  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to 
pine  and  pant  and  bleed. 


And   as   the   dove   to    far   Palmyra 
flying, 
From  where  her  native  founts  of 
Antioch  beam, 
Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting, 
sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter 
stream,  — 
So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  des- 
ert faring, 
Love's  pure,  congenial  spring  un- 
found,  un quaffed. 
Suffers,   recoils, —  then,   thirsty  and 
despairing 
Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips 
the  nearest  draught. 


Frances   Brown. 


LOSSES. 

Upon  the  white  sea  sand 
There  sat  a  pilgrim  band. 
Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had 
known ; 
While  evening  waned  away 
From  breezy  cliff  and  bay, 
And  the  strong  tide  went  out  with 
weary  moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip. 
Of  a  fair  freighted  ship. 

With  all  his  household   to  the  deep 
gone  down ; 
But  one  had  wilder  woe — 
For  a  fair  face,  long  ago     |town. 

Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great 

There  were  who  mourned  their 

youth 
With  a  most  loving  ruth. 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories 

ever  green ; 
And  one  upon  the  west 
Turned   an  eye  that  would  not 

rest, 
For  far-off  hills  whereon  its  joy  had 

been. 


Some  talked  of  vanished  gold. 
Some  of  proud  honors  told, 
Some  spake  of    friends    that    were 
their  trust  no  more ; 
And  one  of  a  green  grave 
Beside  a  foreign  wave, 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the 
shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done. 
There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow 
free : 
"  Sad  losses  have  ye  met. 
But  mine  is  heavier  yet : 
For    a    believing    heart    hath    gone 
from  me." 


"  Alas!"  these  pilgrims  said, 
"  For  the  living  and  the  dead  — 
For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure 
cross. 
For    the    wrecks    of    land    and 

sea! 
But,  howe'er  it  came  to  thee. 
Thine,    stranger,   is  life's  last    and 
heaviest  loss." 


BROWN  ELL. 


57 


Henry   Howard   Brownell. 


THE  RETURN  OF  KANE. 

Toi-L,  tower  and  minster,  toll 
0*er  the  city's  ebb  and  flow! 

Roll,  nmltled  drum,  still  roll 
With  solemn  beat  and  slow!  — 

A  brave  and  ^  splendid  soul 
Hath  gone  —  where  all  shall  go. 

Dimmer,  in  gloom  and  dark, 
Waned  the  taper,  day  by  day, 

And  a  nation  watched  the  spark, 
Till  its  fluttering  died  away. 

Was  its  flame  so  strong  and  calm 
Through  the  dismal  years  of  ice 

To  die  'mid  the  orange  and  the  palm 
And  the  airs  of  Paradise  ? 

Over  that  simple  bier 

While  the  haughty  Spaniard  bows, 
Grief  may  join  in  the  generous  tear. 

And  Vengeance  forget  her  vows. 

Ay,  honor  the  wasted  form 
That  a  noble  spirit  wore  — 

Lightly  it  presses  on  the  warm 
Spring  sod  of  its  parent  shore; 

Hunger  and  darkness,  cold  and  storm 
Never  shall  harm  it  more. 

No  more  of  travel  and  toil, 

Of  tropic  or  arctic  wild: 
Gently,  O  Mother  Soil, 

Take  thy  worn  and  wearied  child. 

Lay  him  —  the  tender  and  true  — 
To  rest  with  such  w^ho  are  gone, 

Each  chief  of  the  valiant  crew 

That  died  as  our  own  hath  done  — 

Let  him  rest  with  stout  Sir  Hugh, 
Sir  Humphrey,  and  good  Sir  John. 

And  let  grief  be  far  remote, 
As  we  march   from  the  place  of 
death. 
To  the  blithest  note  of  the  fife's  clear 
throat. 
And  the  bugle's  cheeriest  breath. 


Roll,  stirring  drum,  still  roll! 

Not  a  sigh  —  not  a  sound  of  woe, 
That  a  grand  and  glorious  soul 

Hath  gone  where  the  brave  must 
go- 


ALL    TOGETHER. 

Old  friends  and  dear!  it  were  ungen- 
tle rhyme. 
If  I  should  question  of  your  true 
hearts,  whether  [time. 

Ye  have  forgotten  that  far,  pleasant 
The  good  old  time  when  we  were 
all  together . 

Our  limbs  were  lusty  and  our  souls 

sublime  ; 

We  never  heeded  cold  and  winter 

weather,  [time. 

Nor  sun  nor  travel,  in  that  cheery 

The  brave  old  time  when  we  were 

all  together. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  tread  the  mountain 
thyme, 
Sweet  was  the  pure  and  piny  moun- 
tain ether. 
And  pleasant  all ;  but  this  was  in  the 
time. 
The  good  old  time  when  we  were 
all  together. 

Since  then  I've  strayed  through  many 
a  fitful  clime, 
(Tossed    on   the  wind  of  fortune 
like  a  feather, ) 
And  chanced  with  rare  good  fellows 
in  my  time  — 
But  ne'er  the  time  that  we  have 
known  together. 

But  none  like  those  brave  hearts  (for 
now  I  climb 
Gray    hills    alone,  or    thread    the 
lonely  heather,) 
That  walked  beside  me  in  the  ancient 
time, 
The  good  old  time  when  we  wert 
all  toE^ether. 


58 


BROWNE  LL. 


Long  since,  we  parted  in  our  careless 
prime, 
Like  summer  birds  no  Jmie  sliall 
hasten  hither; 
No  more  to  meet  as  in  that  merry 
time, 
The  sweet  spring-time  that  shone 
on  all  together. 

Some,  to  the  fevered  city's  toil  and 
grime, 
And   some  o'er  distant  seas,  and 
some  —  ah!  whither? 
Nay,  we  shall  never  meet  as  in  the 
time. 
The  dear  old  time  when  we  were 
all  together. 

And    some  —  above    their    heads,  in 
wind  and  rime, 
Year  after  year,  the  grasses  wave 
and  wither  ; 
Aye,  we  shall  meet!  —  'tis  but  a  little 
time. 
And  all  shall  lie  Avith  folded  hands 
together. 

And  if,  beyond  the  sphere  of  doubt 
and  crime, 
Lie  purer  lands  —  ah !  let  our  steps 
be  thither; 
That,  done  with  earthly  change  and 
earthly  time, 
Li  God's  good  time  we  may  be  all 
together. 


MIDNIGHT- A  LAMENT. 

Do  the  dead  carry  their  cares 
Like  us,  to  the  place  of  rest  ? 

The  long,  long  night  —  is  it  theirs. 
Weary  to  brain  and  breast  ? 

Ah,  that  I  knew  how  it  fares 
With  One  that  I  loved  the  best. 

I  lie  alone  in  the  house. 
How    the    wretched    North-wind 
raves ! 
I  listen,  and  think  of  those 
O'er  whose  heads    the  wet  grass 
waves  — 
Do  they  hear  the  wind  that  blows, 
And  the  rain  on  their  lonely  graves  ? 


Heads  that  I  helped  to  lay 
On  the  pillow  that  lasts  for  aye. 

It  is  but  a  little  way 
To  the  dreary  hill  where  they  lie-v 

No  bed  but  the  cold,  cold  clay  — 
No  roof  but  the  stormy  sky. 

Cruel  the  thought  and  vain! 

They've  now  nothing  more  to  bear — 
Done  with  sickness  and  pain, 

Done  with  trouble  and  care  — 
But  1  hear  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

And  still  1  think  of  them  there. 

Ah,  couldst  thou  come  to  mt, 
Bird  that  I  loved  the  best! 

That  I  knew  it  was  well  with  thee  — 
Wild  and  weary  North- West! 

Wai!  in  chimney  and  tree  — 
Leave  the  dead  to  their  rest. 


THE  ADIEU. 

Sweet  Falsehoods,  fare  ye  well! 
That  may  not  longer  dwell 
In  this  fond  heart,  dear  paramours  of 
Youth! 
A  cold,  unloving  bride 
Is  ever  at  my  side  — 
Yet  who    so  pure,    so  beautiful  as 
Truth  ? 

Long  hath  she  sought  my  side. 
And  would  not  be  denied, 
Till,  all  perforce,  she  won  my  spirit 
o'er  — 
And  though  her  glances  be 
But  hard  and  stern  to  me, 
At  every  step  I  love  her  more  and 
more. 


ALONE. 


A  SAD  old  house  by  the  sea. 

Were  we  happy,  I  and  thou, 
In  the  days  that  used  to  be  ? 

There  is  nothing  left  me  now 

But  to  lie,  and  think  of  thee 
With  folded  hands  on  my  breast, 

And  list  to  the  weary  sea 
Sobbing  itself  to  rest. 


BROWN  ELL. 


59 


LOXG  AGO. 

When  at  eve  I  sit  alone, 
Thinking  on  the  Past  and  Gone  — 
While  the  clock,  with  drowsy  finger, 
Marks    how   long   the   minutes   lin- 
ger,— 
And  the  embers,  dimly  burning. 
Tell  of  Life  to  Dust  returning  — 
Then  my  lonely  chair  around, 
With  a  quiet,  mournful  sound, 
With  a  murmur  soft  and  low, 
Come  the  ghosts  of  Long  Ago. 

One  by  one,  I  count  them  o'er. 
Voices,  that  are  lieard  no  more. 
Tears,  that  loving  cheeks  have  wet. 
Words, whose  music  lingers  yet,  — 
Holy  faces,  pale  and  fair, 
Shado^v'y  locks  of  waving  hair  — 
Happy  sighs  and  whispers  dear, 
Songs  forgotten  many  a  year,  — 
Lips  of  dewy  fragrance  —  eyes 
Brighter,  bluer  than  the  skies  — 
Odors  breathed  from  Paradise. 

And  the  gentle  shadows  glide 
Softly  murmuring  at  my  side, 
Till  the  long  unfriendly  day, 
All  forgotten,  fades  away. 

Thus,  when  I  am  all  alone. 
Dreaming  o'er  the  Past  and  Gone, 
All  around  me,  sad  and  slow, 
Come  the  ghosts  of  Long  Ago. 


AT  SEA. 

Midnight  in  drear  New  England, 
'Tis  a  driving  storm  of  snow  — 

How  the  casenient  clicks  and  rattles. 
And  the  wind  keeps  on  to  blow ! 

For  a  thousand  leagues  of  coast-line, 
In  fitful  flurries  and  starts. 

The  wild  North-Easter  is  knocking 
At  lonely  windows  and  hearts. 

Of  a  night  like  this,  how  many 
Must  sit  by  the  hearth,  like  me. 

Hearing  the  stormy  weather. 
And  Ihinking  of  those  at  sea! 


Of  the  hearts  chilled  through  with 
watching. 
The  eyes  that  wearily  blink. 
Through  the  blinding  gale  and  snow- 
drift. 
For  the  Lights  of  Navesink! 

How  fares  it,  my  friend,  with  you  ?  — 
If  I've  kept  your  reckoning  aright, 

The  brave  old  ship  must  be  due 
On  our  dreary  coast,  to-night. 

The  fireside  fades  before  me. 
The  chamber  quiet  and  warm  — 

And  1  see  the  gleam  of  her  lanterns 
In  the  wild  Atlantic  storm. 

Like  a  dream,  'tis  all  around  me  — 
The  gale,  with  its  steady  boom. 

And  the  crest  of  every  roller 
Torn  into  mist  and  spume  — 

The  sights  and  the  sounds  of  Ocean 
On  a  night  of  peril  and  gloom. 

The  shroud  of  snow  and  of  spoon- 
drift 

Driving  like  mad  a-lee  — 
And  the  huge  black  hulk  that  wallows 

Deep  in  the  trough  of  the  sea. 

The  creak  of  cabin  and  bulkhead. 
The  wail  of  rigging  and  mast  — 

The  roar  of  the  shrouds  as  she  rises 
From  a  deep  lee-roll  to  the  blast. 

The  sullen  throb  of  the  engine. 
Whose  iron  heart  never  tires  — 

The  swarthy  faces  that  redden 
By  the  glare  of  his  caverned  fires. 

The  binnacle  slowly  swaying. 
And  nursing  the  faithful  steel  — 

And  the  grizzled  old  quarter-master, 
His  horny  hands  on  the  wheel. 

I  can  see  it  —  the  little  cabin  — 
Plainly  as  if  I  were  there  — 

The  chart  on  the  old  green  table. 
The  book  and  the  empty  chair. 

On  the  deck  we  have  trod  together, 
A  patient  and  manly  form. 

To  and  fro,  by  the  foremast. 
Is  pacing  in  sleet  and  storm. 


60 


BROWNING. 


Since  her  keel  first  struck  cold  water, 
By  the  Stormy  Cape's  clear  Light, 

'Tis  little  of  sleep  or  slumber. 
Hath  closed  o'er  that  watchful  sight. 

And  a  hundred  lives  are  hanging 
On  eye  and  on  heart  to-night. 

Would  that  to-night,  beside  him, 
I  walked  the  watch  on  her  deck. 

Recalling  the  Legends  of  Ocean, 
Of  ancient  oattle  and  wreck. 

But  the  stout  old  craft  is  rolling 
A  hundred  leagues  a-iee  — 


Fifty  of  snow-wreathed  hill-side, 
And  fifty  of  foaming  sea. 

I  cannot  hail  him,  nor  press  him 
liy     the    hearty    and     true    light 
hand  — 
I    can     but    murmur,  —  God     bless 
him ! 
And  bring  him  safe  to  the  land. 

And  send  him  the  best  of  weather. 
That  ere  many  suns  shall  shine, 

We  may  sit  by  the  hearth  together. 
And  talk  about  Auld  Lang  Syne. 


WAITfNG  FOR   THE  SHIP. 
[By  C.  D'W.  li.] 


We  are  ever  waiting,  waiting, 
Waiting  for  the  tide  to  turn  — 
"  For  the  train  at  Coventry," 
For  the  sluggish  fire  to  burn  — 
For  a  fai-off  friend's  return. 

We  are  ever  hoping,  hoping. 
Hoping  that  the  wind  will  shift  — 
That  success  may  crown  our  ventui'e- 
That  the  morning  fog  may  lift  — 
That  the  dying  may  have  shrift. 

We  are  ever  fearing,  fearing. 
Fearing  lest  the  ship  have  sailed  — 
That  the  sick  may  ne'er  recover  — 


That  the  letter  was  not  mailed  — 
That  the  trusted  firm  has  failed. 

We  are  ever  wishing,  wishing. 
Wishing  we  were  fai-  at  sea  — 
That  the  winter  were  but  over  — 
That  we  could  but  find  the  key  — 
That  the  prisoner  were  free. 

AVjshing,  fearing,  hoping,  waiting. 
Through  life's  voyage  —  moored    at 

last. 
Tedious  doubts  shall  merge  forever 
(Be  their  sources  strait  or  vast,) 
In  the  inevitable  Past. 


Elizabeth    Barrett   Browning. 


THE  SLEEP. 

He  givetb  His  beloved  sleep. 

Psalm  cxxvii.  2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep. 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is. 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this  — 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep?" 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart",  to  be  unmoved, 


The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep, 
The    patriot's    voice,   to    teach  and 

rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the 

brows  ?  — 
"He  giveth  FJis  beloved  sleep." 

AVhat  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  eailh  blasted  foi'our  sake. 

"  He  giveth  Ilia  beloved  sleep." 


BROWNING. 


61 


"Sleep  soft,  beloved! "  we  sometimes 

say 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 
Sad  dreams  thai  through  the  eyelids 

creep: 
But  never  doleful  dreams  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices! 
O  delved  gold,  the  wallers  heap! 

0  strife,  O  cui-se,  that  o'er  it  fall! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "giveth  His  belovM  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  tloated  overhead, 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man, 
Conflrmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

For  me.  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show. 
That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers 

leap, 
AVould  now  its  wearied  vision  close. 
Would  childlike  on  //i.s  love  repose, 
Who  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

And  friends,  dear  friends  —  when  it 

shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall  — 
*He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.'  " 


LITTLE  MATTIE. 

Dead  ?    Thirteen  a  month  ago! 

Short  and  narrow  her  life's  walk. 
Lover's  love  she  could  not  know 

Even  by  a  dream  or  talk: 


Too  young  to  be  glad  of  youth ; 

Missing  honor,  labor,  rest. 
And  the  warmth  of  a  babe's  mouth 

At  the  blossom  of  her  breast. 
Must  you  pity  her  for  this,  ^ 

And  for  all  the  loss  it  is  — 
You,  her  mother,  with  wet  face, 
Having  had  all  in  your  case  ? 

Just  so  young  but  yesternight. 

Now  she  is  as  old  as  death. 
Meek,  obedient  in  your  sight, 

Gentle  to  a  beck  or  breath 
Only  on  last  Monday!  yours. 

Answering  you  like  silver  bells 
Slightly  touched!  an  hour  matures: 

You  can  teach  her  nothing  else. 
She  has  seen  the  mystery  hid 
Under  Egypt's  pyramid: 
By  thoseeyelids  pale  anil  close 
Now  she  knows  what  Rhamses  knows. 

Cross  her  quiet  hands,  and  smooth 

Down  her  patient  locks  of  silk. 
Cold  and  passive  as  in  truth 

You  your  fingers  in  spilt  milk 
Drew  along  a  marble  floor; 

But  her  lips  you  cannot  wring 
Into  saying  a  word  more, 

"  Yes,"  or  "  No,"  or  such  a  thing. 
Though  you  call,  and  beg,  and  wreak 
Half  your  soul  out  in  a  shriek. 
She  will  lie  there  in  default 
And  most  innocent  revolt. 

Ay,  and  if  she  spoke,  may  be 

She  would  answer  like  the  Sox, 
"  What  is  now  'twixt  thee  and  me  ?  " 

Dreadful  answer!  better  none. 
Yours  on  Monday,  God's  to-day! 

Yours,  your  child,  your  blood,  your 
heart, 
Called  .  .  .  you  called  her,  did  you 
say, 

"  Little  Mattie,"  for  your  part  ? 
Now  already  it  sounds  strange. 
And  you  wonder,  in  this  change. 
What  He  calls  His  angel-creature, 
Higher  up  than  you  can  reach  her. 

'Twas  a  green  and  easy  world 
As  she  took  it !  room  to  play, 

(Though  one's  hair  might  get  uncurled 
Xt  the  far  end  of  the  day.) 


62 


BROWNING. 


What  she  suffered  she  shook  off 

In  the  sunshine;  what  she  sinned 
She  could  pray  on  high  enough 
To  keep  safe  above  the  wind. 
If  reproved  by  God  or  you, 
'Twas  to  better  her  she  knew; 
And  if  crossed,  she  gathered  still, 
"Twas  to  cross  out  something  ill. 

You,  you  had  the  right,  you  thought, 

To  survey  her  with  sweet  scorn. 
Poor  gay  child,  who  had  not  caught 

Yet  the  octave-stretch  forlorn 
Of  your  larger  wisdom !    Nay, 

Now  your  places  are  changed  so, 
In  that  same  superior  way 

She  regards  you  dull  and  low 
As  you  did  herself  exempt 
From    life's    sorrows.      Grand    con- 
tempt 
Of  the  spirits  risen  awhile, 
Who  look  back  with  such  a  smile! 

There's  the  sting  of  't.    That,  I  think, 

Hurts  the  most,  a  thousand-fold! 
To  feel  sudden,  at  a  wink, 

Some  dear  child  we  used  to  scold. 
Praise,  love  both  ways,  kiss  and  tease. 

Teach  and  tumble  as  our  own. 
All  its  curls  about  our  knees. 

Rise  up  suddenly  full-grown. 
Who  could  wonder  sucha  sight 
Made  a  woman  mad  outright  ? 
Show  me  Michael  with  the  sword, 
Kather  than  such  angels.  Lord ! 


TO  FLUSH,  MY  DOG. 

Like  a  lady's  ringlets  brown, 
Flow  thy  silken  ears  adown 

Either  side  demurely 
Of  thy  silver-suited  breast 
Shining  out  from  all  the  rest 

Of  thy  body  purely. 

Darkly  brown  thy  body  is, 
Till  the  sunshine  striking  this 

Alchemize  its  dullness"; 
When  the  sleek  curls  manifold 
Flash  all  over  into  gold. 

With  a  burnished  fulness. 


Underneath  my  stroking  hand, 
Startled  eyes  of  hazel  bland 

Kindling,  growing  larger. 
Up  thou  leapest  with  a  spring. 
Full  ot  prank  and  curveting. 

Leaping  like  a  charger. 

Leap!  thy  broad  tail  waves  alight; 
Leap !  thy  slender  feet  are  bright, 

Canopied  in  fringes. 
Leap — those  tasselled  ears  of  thine, 
Flicker  strangely,  fair  and  fine, 

Down  their  golden  inches. 

Yet,  my  pretty,  sportive  friend, 
Little  is 't  to  such  an  end 

That  I  praise  thy  rareness! 
Other  dogs  may  be  thy  peers 
Haply  in  those  drooping  ears, 

And  this  glossy  fairness. 

But  of  thee  it  shall  be  said, 
This  dog  watched  beside  a  bed 

Day  and  night  unweary,  — 
Watched  within  a  curtained  room, 
Where  no  sunbeam  brake  the  gloom 

Round  the  sick  and  dreary. 

Roses  gathered  for  a  vase. 
In  that  chamber  died  apace. 

Beam  and  breeze  resigning  — 
This  dog  only  waited  on. 
Knowing  that,  when  light  is  gone 

Love  remains  for  shining. 

Other  dogs  in  tliymy  dew 
Tracked    the    hares    and    followed 
through 

Sunny  moor  or  meadow  — 
This  dog  only  crept  and  crept 
Next  to  languid  clieek  that  slept, 

Sharing  in  the  shadow. 

Other  dogs  of  loyal  cheer 
Bounded  at  the  whistle  clear. 

Up  tlie  woodside  hieing  — 
This  dog  only,  watched  in  reach, 
Of  a  faintly  uttered  speech, 

Or  a  louder  sighing. 

And  if  one  or  two  quick  tears 
Dropped  upon  his  glossy  ears, 

Or  a  sigh  came  double,  — 
Up  he  sprang  in  eager  haste, 


BROWNING. 


Fawning,  fondling,  breathing  fast, 
In  a  tender  trouble. 

Therefore  to  this  dog  will  1, 
Tenderly,  not  scornfully, 

Kender  praise  and  favor  : 
With  my  hand  upon  his  head, 
Is  my  benediction  said. 

Therefore  and  forever. 

And  because  he  loves  me  so, 
Better  than  his  kind  will  do 

Often,  man,  or  woman. 
Give  I  back  more  love  again 
Than  dogs  often  take  of  men, 

Leaning  from  my  Human. 


CONSOLATION. 

Alt.  are  not  taken !  there  are  left  be- 
hind 

Living  Beloveds,  tender  looks  to 
bring, 

And  make  the  daylight  still  a  happy 
thing, 

And  tender  voices  to  make  soft  the 
wind. 

But  if  it  were  not  so  —  if  1  could  find 

No  love  in  all  the  world  for  comfort- 
ing, 

Nor  any  path  but  hollowly  did  ring, 

Where  " dust  to  dust"  the  love  from 
life  disjoined  — 

And  if  before  these  sepulchres  un- 
moving 

I  stood  alone,  (as  some  forsaken  lamb 

Goes  bleating  up  the  moors  in  weai^ 
dearth ) 

Crying  "W^here  are  ye,  O  my  loved 
and  loving?" 

I  know  a  voice  would  somid, 
"Daughter,   I   am. 

Can  I  suffice  for  Heaven,  and  not 
for  earth?" 


A   PORTBAIT. 
•♦  One  name  is  Elizabeth."  —  Bex  Jonsox. 

I  WILL  paint  her  as  I  see  her; 
Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 


And  her  face  is  lily-clear  — 

Lily-shaped,  and  drooped  in  duty, 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  cheeks  encolored  faintly. 
Which  a  trail  of  golden  hair 
Keeps  from  fading  off  to  air: 

And  a  forehead  fair  and  saintly, 
Which  two  blue  eyes  undershine. 
Like  meek  prayers  before  a  shrine. 

Face  and  figure  of  a  child,  — 
Though  too  calm,  you  think,  and 

tender, 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend 
her. 

Yet  child-simple,  undefiled, 
Frank,  obedient,  — waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moving  light,  as  all  young  things  — 
As  young  birds,  or  early  wheat 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 

Only  free  from  flutterings 
Of  loud  mirth  that  scorneth  meas- 
ure— 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  pleasm-e : 

Choosing  pleasures  (for  the  rest) 
Which  come  softly  —  just  as  she, 
When  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 

Quiet  talk  she  liketh  best. 
In  a  bower  of  gentle  looks  — 
Watering     flowers,      or     reading 
books. 


And  if  any  poet  knew  her. 
He  would  sing  of  her  with  falls 
Used  in  lovely  madrigals. 

And  if  any  painter  drew  her, 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  her  hair. 

And    a    stranger,  —  when    he    sees 
her 
In  the  street  even  —  smileth  stilly, 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lily. 


64 


BROWNING. 


And  all  voices  that  address  her, 
Soften,  sleeken  every  word, 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird. 

And  all  fancies  yearn  to  cover 
The  hard  earth  whereon  she  passes. 
With  the  thymy-scented  grasses. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray,  "  God  love 
her!" 
Ay,  and  always,  in  good  sooth, 
We  may  all  be  sure  He  doth. 


[Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.'] 
ASSURANCE. 

Say  over  again  and  yet  once  over 

again 
That  thou  dost  love  me.    Though  the 

word  repeated 
Should    seem   "  a  cuckoo-song,"   as 

thou  dost  treat  it, 
Remember  never  to  the  hill  or  plain, 
Valley  and  wood,  without  her  cuckoo- 
strain. 
Comes  the  fresh  Spring  in  all  her 

green  completed ! 
Beloved,  I  amid  the  darkness  greeted 
By  a  doubtful   spirit-voice,  in  that 

doubt's  pain 
Cry  .  .  speak  once  more  .  .  thou  lov- 

est!    Who  can  fear 
Too    many    stars,    though    each    in 

heaven  shall  roll  — 
Too  many  flowers,  though  each  shall 

crown  the  year  ? 
Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love 

me  —  toll 
The  silver  iterance !  — only  minding, 

dear. 
To  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy 

soul. 


PERFECT  LOVE. 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count 

the  ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth 

and  height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out 

of  sight 
For  the  ends  of  being  and  ideal  grace. 


1  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every- 
day's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle- 
light. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for 
Right: 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from 
Praise : 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to 
use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  child- 
hood's faith; 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to 
lose 

With  my  lost  saints,  —  I  love  thee 
with  the  breath. 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life! —  and,  if 
God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


THREE  KISSES. 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only 

kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I 

write, 
And   ever  since  it  grew  more  clean 

and  white, 
Slow  to  world-greetings  .  .  quick  with 

its  "  Oh,  list !  " 
When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of 

amethyst 
1  could  not  wear  here  x)lainer  to  my 

sight. 
Than    that    first    kiss.     The   second 

passed  in  height 
The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead, 

and  half  missed, 
Half  falling  on  the  hair.     Oh,  beyond 

meed ! 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which 

love's  own  crown, 
With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  pre- 
cede. 
The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded 

down 
In  perfect,  purple  state!  since  when, 

indeed, 
I  have   been   proud  and  said,   "  My 

love,  my  own." 


BROWNING. 


65 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  HUMAN. 

"There  is    no  God,"   the    foolish 
saith, 
But  none,  "There  is  no  sorrow;" 
And  nature  oft,  the  cry  of  faith. 

In  bitter  need  will  borrow : 
Eyes  which  the  preacher  could  not 
school, 
By  wayside  graves  are  raised ; 
And  lips  say,  "  God  be  pitiful," 
That  ne'er  said,  "  God  be  praised." 
Be  pitiful,  OGod! 

We  sit  together  with  the  skies, 

The  steadfast  skies,  above  us : 
V^e  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 
"  "  And  how  long  will  you  love  us  ?  " 
The  eyes  grow  dim  with  prophecy, 
The  voices  low  and  breathless  — 
*'  Till  death  us  part! "  —  O  words  to 
be 
Our  best  for  love,  the  deathless ! 

Be  pitiful,  dear  God ! 

We  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 

Of  one  loved  and  cfeparted  — 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 

Last  night,  "  Be  stronger  hearted ! " 
O  God,  —  to  clasp  those  fingers  close, 

And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely  \  — 
To  see  a  light  upon  such  brows. 

Which  is  the  daylight  only ! 
Be  pitiful,  OGod! 

We  sit  on  hills  our  childhood  wist, 
Woods,  hamlets,  streams,  behold- 
ing; 
The  sun  strikes  through  the  farthest 
mist, 
The  city's  spire  to  golden. 
The  city's  golden  spire  it  was. 
When  hope  and  health  were  strong- 
est, 
But  now  it  is  the  churchyard  grass 
We  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful,  OGod! 

And  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull  — 
Men  whisper,  "  He  is  dying!  " 

We  cry  no  more,  "  Be  pitiful! "  — 
We  have  no  strength  for  ciying; 

No  strength,  no  need!   Then,  soul  of 
mine. 


Look  up  and  triumph  rather  — 

Lo!  in  the  depth  of  God's  Divine, 

The  Son  abjures  the  Father  — 

Be  pitiful,  O  God! 


ONL  Y  A  CURL. 

Friends    of  faces  unknown  and  a 
land 

Unvisited  over  the  sea, 
Who  tell  me  how  lonely  you  stand, 
With  a  single  gold  curl  in  the  hand 

Held  up  to  be  looked  at  by  me ! 

While  you  ask  me  to  ponder  and  say 

What  a  father  and  mother  can  do. 

With    the    bright  yellow  locks   put 

away 
Out  of  reach,  beyond  kiss,  in  the  clay. 
Where  the  violets  press  nearer  than 
you:  — 

Shall  I  speak  like  a  poet,  or  run 
Into  weak  woman's  tears  for  re- 
lief? 
Oh,  children!  1  never  lost  one. 
But  my  arm's  round  my  own  little 
son. 
And  Love    knows    the   secret  of 
Grief. 

And  I  feel  what  it  must  be  and  is 
When  God  draws  a  new  angel  so 

Through  the  house  of  a  man  up  to 
His, 

With  a  murmur  of  music  you  miss, 
And  a  rapture  of  light  you  forego. 

How  you  think,   staring  on  at  the 
door 
Where    the    face    of    your    angel 
flashed  in, 
That  its  brightness,  familiar  before, 
Burns  off  from  you  ever  the  more 
For  the  dark  of  your  sorrow  and  sin. 

"  God  lent  him  and  takes  him,"  you 
sigh  .  .  . 
—  Nay,   there  let  me  break  with 
your  pain, 
God's  generous  in  giving,  say  I, 
And  the  thing  which  he  gives,  I  deny 
That  he  can  ever  take  back  again. 


66 


BROWNING. 


He  gives  what  He  gives.     I  appeal 

To  all  who  bear  babes !   In  the  hour 
When  the  veil  of  the  body  we  feel 
Rent  round  us,  while  torments  reveal 
The  motherhood's  advent  in  power; 

And  the  babe  cries,  —  have  all  of  us 
known 
By  apocalypse  (God  being  there, 
Full  in  nature !)  the  child  is  our  own  — 
Life  of  life,  love  of  love,  moan  of 
moan. 
Through    all   changes,    all    times, 
everywhere. 

He's  ours  and  forever.     Believe, 

O  father !  —  O  mother,  look  back 
To  the  first  love's  assurance!  To  give 
Means,  with   God,   not  to  tempt  or 
deceive 
With  a  cup  thrust  in  Benjamin's 
sack. 

He  gives  what  He  gives :  be  content. 

He  resumes  nothing  given — be  sure. 
God  lend  ?  —  where  the  usurers  lent 
In  His  temple,  indignant  he  went 

And  scourged  away  all  those  im- 
pure. 

He  lends  not,  but  gives  to  the  end. 
As  He  loves  to  the  end.     If  it  seem 

That  he  draws  back  a  gift,  compre- 
hend 

'Tis  to  add  to  it  rather  .  .  .  amend. 
And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream,  — 

Or  keep  ...  as  a  mother  may,  toys 

Too  costly  though  given  by  herself. 
Till  the  room  shall  be  stiller  from 

noise, 
And  the  children  more  fit  for  such 
Joys, 
Kept  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf. 

So  look  up,  friends !    You  who  indeed 
Have  possessed  in  your  house  a 
sweet  piece 
Of  the  heaven  which  men  strive  for, 

must  need 
Be    more   earnest  than    others  are, 
speed 
Where    they  loiter,  persist  where 
they  cease. 


You  know  how  one  angel  smiles  there. 

Then  courage!    'Tis  easy  for  you 
To  be  drawn  by  a  single  gold  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and 
despair 

To  the  safe  place  above  us.    Adieu ! 


[From  Aurora  Leigh.'] 

KINDNESS  FIRST  KNOWN  IN  A 
HOSPITAL. 

....  The  place  seemed   new  and 

strange  as  death. 
The    white    strait  bed,  with  others 

strait  and  white. 
Like  graves  dug  side  by  side,  at  meas- 
ured lengths, 
And  quiet  people  walking  in  and  out 
With  wonderful  low  voices  and  soft 

steps, 
And  apparitional  equal  care  for  each. 
Astonished  her  with  order,  silence, 

law :  [cup. 

And  when  a  gentle  hand  held  out  a 
She  took  it,  as  you  do  at  sacrament, 
Half  awed,  half  melted, — not  being 

used,  indeed, 
To  so  much  love  as  makes  the  form 

of  love 
And  courtesy  of  manners.     Delicate 

drinks 
And  rare  white  bread,  to  which  some 

dying  eyes  [God, 

Were  turned  in  observation.     O  my 
How  sick  we  must  be,  ere  we  make 

men  just ! 
I  think  it  frets  the  saints  in  heaven 

to  see 
How  many  desolate  creatures  on  the 

earth 
Have  learnt  the  simple  dues  of  fellow- 
ship 
And  social  comfort,  in  a  hospital. 


{From  Aurora_Leigh.'] 

SELFISHNESS   OF  INTROSPEC- 
TION. 

We  are  wrong  always,  w  hen  we  think 

too  much 
Of  what  we  th  ink  or  are ;  albeit  our 

thoughts 


MARIAN     ERLE. 


Page  67. 


c     c      c     •   * 


BROWNING. 


67 


Be  verily  bitter  as  self-sacrifice, 

For  soon  it  smiled  at  me;  the  eyes 

We  are  no  less  selfish !    If  we  sleep 

smiled  too. 

on  rocks 

But  'twas  as  if  remembering  they  had 

Or  roses,  sleeping  past  the  hour  of 

wept. 

noon. 

And  knowing  they  should,  some  day, 

We're  lazy. 

weep  again. 

{From  Aurora  Leigh.'] 

[From  Aurora  Leigh.] 

A  CHARACTER. 

THE  ONE  UNIVERSAL  SYMPATHY. 

As  light  November  snows  to  empty 

.   .   .    .   O  WORLD, 

nests, 

0  jurists,   rhymers,  dreamers,  what 

As  grass  to  graves,  as  moss  to  mil- 

you please. 

dewed  stones. 

We  play  a  weary  game  of  hide  and 

As  July  suns  to  ruins,  through  the 

seek! 

rents, 

We  shape  a  figure  of  our  fantasy, 

As  ministering  spirits  to  mourners, 

Call  nothing  something,  and  run  af- 

through a  loss, 

ter  it 

As  Heaven    itself    to    men,  through 

And  lose  it,  lose  ourselves,  too,  in  the 

pangs  of  death 

search, 

He  came  uncalled  wherever  grief  had 

Till  clash  against  us,  comes  a  some- 

come. 

body 

Who  also  has  lost  something  and  is 
lost 

[From  Aurora  Leigh.] 

PICTURE   OF  MARIAX  ERLE. 

[From  Aurora  Leigh.] 

She  was  not  white  nor  brown 

IN  STRUGGLE. 

But  could  look  either,  like  a  mist  that 

changed 

Alas,  long  suffering  and  most  patient 

According  to  being  shone  on  more  or 

God, 

less. 

Thou  need' St  be  surelier  God  to  bear 

The  hair,  too,  ran  its  opulence  of 

with  us 

curls 

Than  even  to  have  made  us !  thou  as- 

In doubt  'twixt  dark  and  bright,  nor 

pire,  aspire 

left  you  clear 

From  henceforth  for  me!  thou  who 

To  name  the  color.     Too  much  hair 

hast,  thyself. 

perhaps 

Endured     this    fleshhood,    knowing 

(I'll  name  a  fault  here)  for  so  small  a 

how,  as  a  soaked 

head. 

And  sucking  vesture,  it  would  drag 

Which  seemed  to  droop  on  that  side 

us  down 

and  on  this, 

And    choke    us    in  the  melancholy 

As  a  full-blown  rose,  uneasy  with  its 

deep. 

weight, 

Sustain  me,  that,  with  thee,  I  walk 

Though  not  a  breath  should  trouble 

these  waves. 

it.     Again, 

Resisting !  —  breathe  me  upward,  thou 

The  dimple  in  the  cheek  had  better 

for  me 

gone 

Aspiring,    who    art    the  Way,    the 

With  redder,  fuller  rounds:  and  some- 

Truth, the  Life,  — 

what  large 

That  no  truth  henceforth  seem  indif- 

The mouth  was,   though  the  milky 

ferent, 

little  teeth 

No  way  to  truth  laborious,  and  no  life, 

Dissolved  it  to  so  infantine  a  smile! 

Not  even  this  life  I  live,  intolerable!. 

68 


SROWNINO. 


Robert  Browning. 


PROSPICE. 

Fear  death?  — to  feel  the  fog  in  my 
throat, 
The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts 
denote 
I  am  nearing  the  place. 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of 
the  storm. 
The  post  of  the  foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch-Fear  in  a 
visible  form, 
Yet  the  strong  man  must  go ; 
Now  the  journey  is  done  and  the  sum- 
mit attained. 
And  the  barriers  fall. 
Though  a  battle  's  to  fight  ere  the 
guerdon  be  gained, 
The  reward  of  it  all. 
1  was  ever  a  tighter,  so,  —  one  fight 
more. 
The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  Death  bandaged 
my  eyes,  and  forbore. 
And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare 
like  my  peers. 
The  heroes  of  old. 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad 
life's  arrears, 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best 
to  the  brave, 
The  black  minute's  at  end, 
the  elements'  ra 
voices  that  rave. 
Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall   change,    shall    become  first  a 
peace,  then  a  joy. 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  soul  of  my  soul !  I  shall  clasp  thee 
again. 
And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


IN  A    YEAR. 

Never  any  more 

While  I  live. 
Need  1  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 


Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive,  — 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace, 

Single  still. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him  ?  was  it  touch  of  hand. 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange !  that  very  way 

Love  begun. 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

1  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sang 

—  Sweetly  too. 
If  I  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprang, 

Then  he  heard. 


Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet. 
So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed 

Satisfied ! 
I  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet: 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 

"  Speak,  —  I  love  thee  best!  " 

He  exclaimed. 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell,"- 

1  confessed: 
"  Cast  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  un blamed. 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine!" 

Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth  ? 
Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone  ? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease. 

Beauty,  youth, — 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 


BROWNING. 


69 


That  was  all  1  meant, 

—  To  be  just, 

And  the  passion  I  had  raised 

To  content. 
Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised, 

Was  it  strange  ? 

Would  he  love  me  yet. 

On  and  on. 
While  1  found  some  way  undreamed, 

—  Paid  ray  debt! 
Give  more  life  and  more, 

Till,  all  gone. 
He  should  smile,  "  She  never  seemed 
Mine  before. 

"  What  —  she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think  ? 
Love 's  so  different  with  us  men," 

He  should  smile. 
'*  Dying  for  my  sake  — 

White  and  pink ! 
Can't  we  touch  those  bubbles  then 

But  they  break  ?  " 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure.     How  perplext 

Grows  belief! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart. 
Crumble  it,  —  and  what  comes  next  ? 

Is  it  God  ? 


E  VEL  YN  HOPE. 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 
She  plucked  that  piece   of    gera- 
nium-flower. 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass. 
Little    has    yet    been    changed,   I 
think, 
The  sliutters  are  shut,  —  no  light  may 
pass 
Save   two  long  rays  through  the 
hinge's  chink. 


Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  I 

Perhaps  slie  had  scarcely  heard  my 
name,  — 
It  was  not  lier  time  to  love;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir,  — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of 
her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What !  your  soul  was  pure  and  true ; 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope. 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew; 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old. 
And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged 
so  wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  1  be 
told? 
We  were  fellow-mortals,  —  naught 
beside  ? 

No,  indeed !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant  as  mighty  to  make, 

And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the 

love ; 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's 

sake! 

Delayed,  it  may  be,  for  more  lives 

yet, 

Through   worlds   I  shall  traverse, 

not  a  few ; 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 
Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking 

you. 

But  the  time  will  come  —  at  last  it 
will  — 
When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant, 
I  shall  say. 
In  the  lower  earth,  —  in  the  years 
long  still,  — 
That   body  and  soul   so  pure  and 

gay? 

Why  your  hair  was  amber  I  shall 
divine. 
And  your  moutli  of  your  own  gera- 
nium's red,  — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in 
fine. 
In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's 
stead. 


70 


BROWNING. 


1  have  lived,  shall  I  say,  so  much  since 
then, 
Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained    me    the    gains    of    various 
men, 
Ransacked  the    ages,    spoiled  the 
climes; 
Yet  one  thing  —  one  —  in  my  soul's 
full  scope, 
Either  1  missed,    or   itself  missed 
me,  — 
And   I  want  and   find  you,    Evelyn 
Hope! 
What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see ! 

1  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while; 
My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could 
hold,  — 
There  was  space  and  to  spare  for  the 
frank  young  smile. 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  apd  the 
hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush !  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to 
keep  : 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet,  cold 
hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret!  go  to  sleep; 
You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and 
understand. 


[From  Tn  a  Gondola.] 
THE   TWO  KISSES. 

The  Moth's  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve. 

How   my   face,    your    flower,     had 

pursed 
Its  petals  up;  so,  here  and  there 
You  brush  it,  till  1  grow  aware 
Who  wants  me,  and  wide  open  burst. 

The  Bee's  kiss,  now! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dared  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 


HOW   THEY  BROUGHT  THE    GOOD 
NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris 
and  he: 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  gal- 
loped all  three ; 

"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch  as 
the  gate-bolts  undrew, 

"  Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  gaK 
loping  through. 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights 
sank  to  rest. 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped 
abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept 

the  great  pace  — 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never 

changing  our  place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its 

girths  tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set 

the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained 

slacker  the  bit. 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Eoland  a 

whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while 

we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight 

dawned  clear; 
At  Boom  a  great  yellow  star  came 

out  to  see; 
At  Doffeld  'twas  morning  as  plain  as 

could  be; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we 

heard  the  half-chime  — 
So  Joris  broke    silence    with  "Yet 

there  is  time  I  " 

At  Aerschot  up  leaped  of  a  sudden 
the  sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood 
black  every  one. 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  gal- 
loping past; 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland 
at  last. 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting 
away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  head- 
land its  spray; 


BROWNING. 


71 


And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one 
sharp  ear  bent  back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked 
out  on  his  track; 

And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — 
ever  that  glance 

O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own 
master,  askance; 

And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes, 
which  aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  gal- 
loping on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dlrck  groaned;  and  cried 
Joris,  "Stay  spur! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the 
fault's  not  in  her; 

We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one 
heard  the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck, 
and  staggering  knees. 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of 
the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shud- 
dered and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud 
in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  piti- 
less laugh ; 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle, 
bright  stubble  like  chaff; 

Till  over  by  Delhem  a  dome-spire 
sprang  white, 

And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for 
Aix  is  in  sight!" 

"  How  they'll  greet  us ! "  —  and  all  in 
a  moment  his  roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead 
as  a  stone ; 

And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear 
the  whole  weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save 
Aix  from  her  fate. 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of 
blood  to  the  brim, 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye- 
sockets'  rim. 

Then  1  cast  loose  my  buif-coat,  each 

holster  let  fall. 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go 

belt  and  all, 


Stood  up  in  the  stirmp,  leaned,  pat- 
ted his  ear. 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my 
horse  without  peer  — 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sung, 
any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix,  Roland  gal- 
loped and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flock- 
ing round, 

As  I  sate  with  his  head  'twixt  my 
knees  on  the  ground ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this 
Roland  of  mine. 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last 
measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  com- 
mon consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who 
brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 


[From  The  rang  and  The  Book.] 
DREAMS. 

It  is  the  good  of  dreams  —  so  soon 

they  go ! 
Wake  in  a  horror  of  heart-beats  you 

may  — 
Cry,    "  The  dead    thing  will    never 

from  my  thoughts ! " 
Still,  a  few  daylight  doses  of  plain 

life, 
Cock-crow    and    sparrow-chii-p,    or 

bleat  and  bell 
Of  goats  that  trot  by,  tinkling  to  be 

milked; 
And  when  you  rub  your  eyes  awake 

and  wide, 
Where  is  the  harm  o'  the  horror? 

Gone! 


[From  The  Ring  and  The  Book.] 
THE  LACK  OF  CHILDREN. 

What  could  they  be  but  happy?  — 

balanced  so, 
Xor  low  i'  the  social  scale  nor  yet  too 

high. 
Nor  poor  nor  richer  than  comports 

with  ease, 


72 


BRYANT. 


Nor  bright  and  envied,  nor  obscure 
and  scorned, 

Nor  so  young  that  their  pleasures  fell 
too  thick, 

Nor  old  past  catching  pleasure  when 
it  fell. 

Nothing  above,  below  the  just  degree, 

All  at  the  mean  where  joy's  compo- 
nents mix. 

So  again,  in  the  couple's  very  souls 

You  saw  the  adequate  half  with  half 
to  match. 

Each  having  and  each  lacking  some- 
what, both 

Making  a  whole  that  had  all  and 
lacked  naught; 

The  round  and  sound,  in  whose  com- 
posure just 

The  acquiescent  and  recipient  side 

Was  Pietro's,  and  the  stirring  striv- 
ing one 

Violante's:  both  in  union  gave  the 
due 

Quietude,  enterprise,  craving  and 
content. 

Which  go  to  bodily  health  and  peace 
of  mind. 

But,  as  'tis  said  a  body,  rightly 
mixed. 

Each  element  in  equipoise,  would 
last 


Too  long  and  live  forever,  —  accord- 
ingly 
Holds  a  germ  —  sand-grain  weight  too 

much  i'  the  scale  — 
Ordained  to  get  predominance  one 

day 
And  so  bring  all  to  ruin  and  release, — 
Not  otherwise  a  fatal  germ  lurked 

here : 
"With  mortals  much  must  go,  but 

something  stays; 
Nothing  will  stay  of  our  so  hapi)y 

selves." 
Out  of  the  very  ripeness   of    life's 

core 
A  worm  was  bred  —  "Our  life  shall 

leave  no  fruit." 
Enough  of  bliss,  they  thought,  could 

bliss  bear  seed,  _ 
Yield  its  like,  propagate  a  bliss  in 

turn 
And  keep  the  kind  up;  not  supplant 

themselves 
But    put    in   evidence,   record   they 

were. 
Show  them,  when  done  with,  i'  the 

shape  of  a  child. 
"  'Tis  in  a  child,  man  and  wife  grow 

complete, 
One  flesh:  God  says  so:  let  him  do 

his  work! " 


William   Cullen   Bryant. 


"BLESSED   ARE   THEY   THAT 
MOURN.  " 

Oh,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep ; 

The    Power    who    j^ities    man    has 
shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night; 

And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest. 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 


And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low 
bier, 

Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  of  rain, 
Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 

Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart. 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny. 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  bleeding 
heart. 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing 
day 
And  numbered  everj'  secret  tear, 
And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall 
pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 


BRYANT, 


73 


JUNE. 

I  GAZED  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round ; 
And  thought  that  \\\\q\\  I  came  to 
lie 
At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'Twere    pleasant,    that    in    flowery 

June, 
When    brooks   send    up  a   cheerful 
tune, 
And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The    sexton's    hand,    my    grave    to 

make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should 
break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 
A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 

And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat  — 

Away! — I  will  not  think  of  these  — 

Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze. 
Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 

And    be    the    damp    mould    gently 
pressed 

Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There  through  the  long,  long  sum- 
mer hours 
The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of 
flowers 
Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be 

heard 
The  housewife  bee  and    humming- 
bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or'songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light. 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
1  \\ould  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  or  sound. 

1  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 
The  season's  glorious  show, 


Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for 

me, 
Nor  its  wild  music  flow; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleeji, 
The  friends  1  love  should  come  to 

weep. 
They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and 

bloom. 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my 

tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should 
bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been. 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene; 
Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills. 

Is  —  that  his  grave  is  green; 
And  deeply  %vould  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


THE   PAST. 

TiioiT  unrelenting  Past! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round    thy 
dark  domain. 
And  fetters,  sure  and  fast. 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing 
reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old    empires  sit  in  sullenness  and 
gloom, 
And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy 
womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth. 
Youth,   Manhood,   Age,  that  draws 
us  to  the  ground. 
And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth. 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are 
bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  eailier  friends  —  the 
good  —  the  kind. 
Yielded  to  thee  with  tears  — 
The    venerable    form  —  the    exalted 
mind. 


74 


BRYANT. 


My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back  —  yearns  with  de- 
sire intense, 
And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Tby  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  cap- 
tives thence. 

In  vain  —  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence 
depart; 
Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back  — nor  to  the 
broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and   excellence  unknown  — 
to  thee 
Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters   to   the 
sea; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished       charity,       unbroken 
faith. — 
Love  that  midst  grief  began. 
And  grew  with  years,  and  "faltered 
not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy'  depths,  unuttered,  un- 
revered ; 
With  thee  are  silent  fame. 
Forgotten  arts,  and   wisdom  disap- 
peared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they  — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up 
at  last; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way. 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past  I 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest 
time, 
Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory   and    the    beauty   of    its 
prime. 

They  have  not  perished  —  no ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once 
so  sweet. 
Smiles,  radiant  long  ago. 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  appar- 
ent seat. 


All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again; 

Alone  shall  evil  die. 
And  sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy 
reign. 

And  then  shall  1  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I 
sprung. 
And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave  —  the  beautiful 
and  young. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature 

holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms, 

she  speaks 

*ious 

hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a 

smile 
And   eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she 

glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals 

away 
Their    sharpness    ere    he  is  aware. 

When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a 

blight 
Ovei"  thy  "spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and 

pall, 
And    breathless    darkness,   and    the 

narrow  house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick 

at  heart ;  — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and 

list 

atur 

all  around 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths 

of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice  :  Yet  a  few  days 

and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sim  shall  see  no 

more 
In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold 

ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with 

many  tears, 


BRYANT. 


75 


Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall 

exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished 

thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth 

again. 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  siuren- 

dering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements. 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible 

rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the 

rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  up- 
on.    The  oak 
Shall    send    his    roots    abroad,  and 

pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting- 
place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone, —  nor  couldsr 

thou  wish 
Couch    more    magnificent.        Thou 

shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world 

—  with  kings, 
The    powerful    of    the    earth — the 

wise,  the  good,  • 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages 

past. 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.    The 

hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun ; 

the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  be- 
tween ; 
The    venerable    woods;    rivers    that 

move 
In    majesty,    and    the    complaining 

brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and, 

poured  round  all. 
Old    ocean's    gray   and    melancholy 

waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of    the    great    tomb  of  man.     The 

golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of 

heaven. 
Are  shining  on   the  sad  abodes    of 

death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All 

that  tread 


The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the 

tribes 
That  slumber  in  i*3  bosom.  —  Take 

the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert 

sands, 
Or   lose    thyself  in  the  continuous 

woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears 

no  sound. 
Save    his    own    dasliings  —  yet    the 

dead  are  there : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since 

first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid 

them  down 
In  their   last    sleep;  the  dead  reign 

there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou 

withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no 

friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All 

that  breathe 
Will  share   thy    destiny.     The    gay 

will  laugh 
When  thou  art   gone;    the    solemn 

brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will 

chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these 

shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments, 

and  shall  come, 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As 

the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and 

he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron, 

and  maid. 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray- 
headed  man,  — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy 

side, 
By  those  who  in  ^heir  turn  shall  fol- 
low them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons 

comes  to  join 
The    innumerable    caravan,    which 

moves 
To  that  mysterious  -ealm,  where  each 

shall  take 


76 


BRYANT. 


His  chamber   in  the  silent  halls  of 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majes- 

death, 

tic  rest. 

Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave 

Summoning,  from  the  innumer- 

at night. 

able  boughs, 

Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sus- 

The   strange,   deep  harmonies  that 

tained  and  soothed 

haunt  his  breast: 

By  an  unfaltering    trust,    approach 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where 

thy  grave 

meekly  bows 

Like  one  v/ho  wraps  the  drapery  of 

The    shutting  flower,   and  darkling 

his  couch 

waters  pass, 

About  him,  and  lies  do^vn  to  pleas- 

And where  the  o'ershadowing  branch- 

ant dreams. 

es  sweep  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver 

THE  EVENING    WIND. 

head 

To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the 

Spirit    that    breathest  through  my 

child  asleep. 

lattice,  thou 

And  dry   the  moistened  curls  that 

That  coolest  the  twilight  of  the 

overspread 

sultry  day, 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round 

grows  more  deep: 

my  brow : 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the 

man's  bed, 

deep  at  play. 

Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant 

Kiding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves 

sweep. 

till  now, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Roughening    their    crests,    and 

Thy  visit,   grateful  to  his    burning 

scattering  high  their  spray 

brow. 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  wel- 

come thee 

Go— but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer 

Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall 

of  the  sea ! 

restore, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy 

Nor    I    alone — a  thousand    bosoms 

mighty  range. 

round 

Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  de- 

once more ; 

light; 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and 

And    languid    forms    rise    up,    and 

strange. 

julses  bound 

Shall  tell  thehome-sick  mariner 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind 

of  the  shore; 

of  night; 

And,   listening    to  thy  murmur,  he 

And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grate- 

shall deem 

ful  sound, 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  run- 

Lies   the  vast  inland  stretched 

ning  stream. 

beyond  the  sight. 

Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade; 
go  forth. 

God's    blessing    breathed    upon  the 

LIFE. 

fainting  earth ! 

Oh,  Life,  I  breathe  thee  in  the  breeze, 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his 

I  feel  thee  bounding  in  my  veins. 

nest, 

I  see  thee  in  these  stretching  trees, 

Curl  the  still  M^aters,  bright  with 

These    flowers,    this    still    rock's 

stars,  and  rouse 

mossy  stains. 

BRYANT. 


77 


This  stream  of  odor  flowing  by, 
From  clover  field  and  clumps  of 
pine, 
This  music,  thrilling  all  the  sky, 
From  all  the  morning  birds,  are 
thine. 

Thou     fill'st    with   joy    this    little 
one, 
That  leaps  and  shouts  beside  me 
here, 
Where  Isar's  clay  white  rivulets  run 
Through    the    dark    woods    like 
frighted  deer. 

Ah!  must  thy  mighty  breath,  that 
wakes 
Insect  and  bird,   and  flower  and 
tree, 
From  the  low-trodden  dust,  and  makes 
Their    daily  gladness,    pass  from 
me  — 

Pass,   pulse  by  pulse,  till  o'er    the 
ground 
These  limbs,  now  strong,  shall  creep 
with  pain. 
And    this    fair  world  of  sight  and 
sound 
Seem  fading  into  night  again  ? 

The  things,  oh.  Life!  thou  quickenest, 
all 
Strive  upward  towards  the  broad 
bright  sky. 
Upward  and  outward,  and  they  fall 
Back  to  earth's  bosom  when  they 
die. 

All  that    have  borne  the  touch  of 
death, 
All    that    shall    live,   lie   mingled 
there. 
Beneath    that    veil    of    bloom    and 
breath. 
That  living  zone  'twixt  earth  and 
air. 

There  lies   my   chamber  dark    and 
still. 
The  atoms  trampled  by  my  feet. 
There  wait,  to  take  the  place  I  fill 
In    the    sweet    air   and    sunshine 
sweet. 


Well,   I  have  had    my    turn,    have 
been 
Raised  from  the  darkness  of  the 
clod. 
And  for  a  glorious  moment  seen 
The    brightness    of    the  skirts  of 
God; 

And    knew    the    light    within    my 
breast. 
Though  wavering  oftentimes  and 
dim. 
The   power,    the    will,    that   never 
rest, 
And  cannot  die,  were  all  from  Him. 

Dear  child!  I  know  that  thou  wilt 
grieve 
To  see  me  taken  from  thy  love. 
Wilt  seek  my  grave  at  Sabbath  eve. 
And    weep,    and    scatter    flowers 
above. 

Thy  little  heart  will  soon  be  healed, 
And  being  shall  be  bliss,  till  thou 

To  younger  forms  of  life  must  yield 
The  place  thou  fill'st  with  beauty 
now. 

When  we  descend  to  dust  again. 

Where  will  the  final  dwelling  be 
Of    Thought    and   all  its  memories 
then, 
My   love  for  thee,  and  thine  for 
me? 


THE  FrdNGED   GEN^TIAN. 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn 

dew. 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own 

blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs 

unseen. 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden 

nest, 


78 


BRYANT. 


Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 

When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are 
flown, 

And  frosts  and  shortening  days  por- 
tend 

The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  tlie  sky, 
Blue —  blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


THE   CROWDED  STREET. 

Let  me  move  slowly  through   Lhe 
street. 
Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train. 
Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 
The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn 
rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face; 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles, 
and  some 
Where  secret  tears  have  left  their 
trace. 

They  pass  —  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest; 

To  halls  in    which    the    feast    is 
spread ; 
To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 

In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair. 
Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to 
cheek. 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here. 
Shall   shudder  as  they  reach  the 
door 
Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling 
dear, 
Its    flower,   its    light,   is  seen  no 
more. 


Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender 
frame. 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine 
eye ! 
Goest  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 
Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow! 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ?^ 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  no^y, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air? 

Who    of  this  crowd  to-night    shall 
tread 
The    dance    till    daylight    gleam 
again  ? 
Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead  ? 
Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal 
pain  ? 

Some,    famine-struck,    shall    think 
how  long 
The  cold  dark  hours,  how  slow  the 
light! 
And    some    who    flaunt    amid    the 
throng. 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to- 
night. 

Each,  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures 
call. 
They  pass  and  heed  each  other  not. 
There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them 
all. 
In  His  large  love  and  boundless 
thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life  that 
seem 
In    wayward,    aimless    course    to 
tend. 
Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 
That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 


THE  FUTURE  LIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere 
which  keeps 
The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead. 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could 
wither,  sleeps 
And  perishes  among  the  dust  we 
tread  ? 


BRYANT. 


79 


For  I  shall  feel  tho  sting  of  ceaseless 
pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence 
not; 
Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read 
again 
In    thy    serenest  eyes  the  tender 
thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand 
me  there  ? 
That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs 
to  me  were  given  ? 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy 
prayer, 
And  must  thou  never  utter  it  in 
heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life- 
breathing  wind. 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glo- 
rious sphere, 
And  larger  movements  of  the  unfet- 
tered mind. 
Wilt   thou    forget    the   love  that 
joined  us  here  ? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the 
stormy  past. 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  na- 
ture bore, 
And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to 
the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no 
more? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger 
liglit. 
Await  thee  there;  for  thou  hast 
bowed  thy  will 
In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of 
right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good 
for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I 
dwell. 
Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as 
heat  the  scroll ; 
And  wrath  has   left  its  scar — that 
fire  of  hell 
Has  iQft  its  frightful  scar  upon  my 
soul. 


Yet  though  thou  wearest  the  glory  of 
the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  be- 
loved name, 
The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and 
gentle  eye. 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate, 
yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,   in    that 
calmer  home. 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in 
this  — 
The  wisdom  which  is  love— till  I 
become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of 
bliss  ? 


THE   CONQUEROR'S  GRAVE. 

Within  this  lowly  grave  a  Conqueror 
lies. 
And  yet  the  monument  proclaims 
it  not. 
Nor  round  the  sleeper's  name  hath 
chisel  wrought 
The  emblems  of  a  fame  that  never 
dies. 
Ivy  and  amaranth  in  a  graceful  sheaf. 
Twined  with  the  laurel's  fair,  impe- 
rial leaf. 
A  simple  name  alone. 
To  the  great  world  unknowii. 
Is  graven  here,  and  wild  flowers,  ris- 
ing round, 
Meek  meadow-sweet  and  violets  of 
the  ground, 
Lean  lovingly  against  the  humble 
stone. 

Here  in  the  quiet  earth,   they  laid 
apart 
No  man  of  iron  mould  and  bloody 
hands. 
Who  sought  to  wreck  upon  the  cow- 
ering lands 
The    passions  that  consumed  his 
restless  heart; 
But  one  of  tender  spirit  and  delicate 
frame, 
Gentlest  in  mien  and  mind, 
Of  gentle  womankind, 


80 


BRYANT. 


Timidly  shrinking  from  the  breath 
of  blame ; 

One  in  whose  eyes  the  smile  of  kind- 
ness made 
Its  haunt,    like  flowers  by  sunny 
brooks  in  May, 

Yet,  at  the  thought  of  others'  pain, 
a  shade 
Of    sweeter    sadness    chased    the 
smile  away. 

Nor  deem  that  when  the  hand  that 

moulders  here 
Was  raised  in  menace,  realms  were 

chilled  with  fear, 

1  armies 

as  when 
Clouds  rise  on  clouds  before  the  rainy 

East,  — 
Gray    captains    leading    bands   of 

veteran  men 
And  fiery  youths  to  be  the  vulture's 

feast. 
Not  thus  were  waged  the  mighty  wars 

that  gave 
The  victory  to  her    who    fills    this 

grave; 
Alone  her  task  was  w^rought, 
Alone  the  battle  fought; 
Through  that  long  strife  her  constant 

hope  was  staid 
On  God  alone,  nor  looked  for  other 

aid. 

She  met  the  hosts  of  sorrow  with  a 
look 
That  altered  not  beneath  the  frown 
they  wore, 
And  soon  the  lowering  brood  were 
tamed,  and  took. 
Meekly,     her     gentle    rule,     and 
frowned  no  more. 
Her  soft  hand  put  aside  the  assaults 
of  wrath. 
And  calmly  broke  in  twain 
The  fiery  shafts  of  pain. 
And  rent  the  nets  of  passion  from 
her  path. 
By    that  victorious  hand    despair 
was  slain. 
With  love  she  vanquished  hate  and 

overcame 
Evil  with  good,  in  her  great  Master's 
name. 


Her  glory  is  not  of    this    sliado^vy 

state 
Glory  that  with  the  fleeting  season 

dies ; 
But  when  she  entered  at  the  sapphire 

gate 
What  joy  was  radiant  in  celestial 

eyes! 
How    heaven's    bright  depths  with 

sounding  welcomes  rung, 
And  flowers  of  heaven  by  shining 

hands  were  flung; 
And  He  who,  long  before, 
Pain,  scorn,  and  sorrow  bore, 
The    Mighty    Sufferer,   with   aspect 

sweet, 
Smiled  on  the  timid  stranger  from 

his  seat; 
He  who  returning,  glorious,  from  the 

grave. 
Dragged  Death,  disarmed,  in  chains, 

a  crouching  slave. 

See,  as  I  linger  here,  the  sun  grows 
low; 
Cool  airs  are  murmuring  that  the 
night  is  near. 
Oh,  gentle  sleeper,  from  thy  grave  I 
go 
Consoled  though  sad,  in  hope  and 

yet  in  fear. 
Brief  is  the  time,  I  know. 
The  warfare  scarce  begun ; 
Yet  all  may  win  the  triumphs  thou 

hast  won. 
Still  flows  the  fount  whose    waters 
strengthene:!  thee; 
The  victors'  names  are  yet  too  few 
to  fill 
Heaven's  mighty  roll;  the  glorious 
armory, 
That  ministered  to  thee  is  open 
still. 


[From  an  unfinished  poem.'] 
AN  EVENING  HE  VERY. 

The  summer  day  is  closed  —  the 
sun  is  set; 
Well  they    have  done    their    office, 
those  bright  hours, 


BRYANT. 


81 


The  latest  of  whose  train  goes  softly 

out 
In  the  red  West.    The  green  blade 

of  the  ground 
Has  risen,   and  herds  have  cropped 

it;  the  young  twig 
Has  spread  its  plaited  tissues  to  the 

sun; 
Flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  waste 

have  blown 
And  withered ;  seeds  have  fallen  upon 

the  soil, 
From    bursting    cells,   and  in  their 

graves  await 
Their    resurrection.       Insects    from 

the  pools 
Have  filled  the  air  awhile  with  hum- 
ming wings, 
That  now  are  still  forever;  painted 

moths 
Have  wandered  the  blue  sky,   and 

died  again ; 
The    mother-bird    hath    broken  for 

her  brood 
Their  prison  shell,  or  shoved  them 

from  the  nest, 
Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight.     In 

bright  alcoves. 
In    woodland    cottages    with    barky 

walls,  [town. 

In  noisome  cells  of  the  tumultuous 
Mothers  have  clasped  with   joy  the 

new-born  babe. 
Graves  by  the  lonely  forest,  by  the 

shore 
Of  rivers  and  of  ocean,  by  the  ways 
Of  the  thronged  city,  have  been  hol- 
lowed out 
And    filled,    and   closed.     This  day 

hath  parted  friends 
That    ne'er    before  were  parted;  it 

hath  knit 
New  friendships;  it  hath  seen  the 

maiden  plight 
Her  faith,  and  trust  her  peace  to  him 

who  long 
Had  wooed :  and  it  hath  heard,  from 

lips  which  late 
Were  eloquent  of  love,  the  first  harsh 

word, 
That  told  the  wedded  one,  her  peace 

was  flown. 
Farewell    to    the    sweet    sunshine! 

One  glad  day 


Is  added  now  to  childhood's  merry 

days. 
And  one  calm  day  to  those  of  quiet 

age. 
Still  the  fleet  hours  run  on ;  and  as  I 

lean, 
Amid  the  thickening  darkness,  lamps 

are  lit, 
By  those  who  watch  the  dead,  and 

those  who  twine 
Flowers  for  the  bride.     The  mother 

fiom  the  eyes 
Of  her  sick  infant  shades  the  pain- 
ful light. 
And  sadly  listens  to  his  quick-drawn 

breath. 

O  thou  great  Movement  of  the 
Universe, 

Or  change,  or  flight  of  Time  — for 
ye  are  one ! 

That  bearest,  silently,  this  visible 
scene 

Into  night's  shadow  and  the  stream- 
ing rays 

Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bear- 
ing me  ? 

I  feel  the  mighty  current  sweep  me 
on. 

Yet  know  not  whither.  Man  fore- 
tells afar 

The  courses  of  the  stars;  the  veiy 
hour 

He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or 
grow  bright; 

Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  Sorrow  and 
of  Death 

Come  unforewarned.  Who  next,  of 
those  I  love, 

Shall  pass  from  life,  or  sadder  yet, 
shall  fall 

From  virtue?  Strife  with  foes,  or 
bitterer  strife 

With  friends,  or  shame  and  general 
scorn  of  men  — 

Wliich  who  can  bear?  — or  the  fierce 
rack  of  pain. 

Lie  they  within  my  path  ?  Or  shall 
the  years 

Push  me,  with  soft  and  inoffensive 
pace. 

Into  the  stilly  twilight  of  my 
age? 

Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life 


82 


BUBNS. 


Even  now,  while  I  am  glorying  in  my 

strength, 

Impend  around  me?  O!  beyond 
that  bourne, 

In  the  vast  cycle  of  being  which  be- 
gins 

At  that  broad  threshold,  with  what 
fairer  forms 

Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and 
progress  clothe 


Its     workings?      Gently — so    have 

good  men  taught  — 
Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old 

shall  glide 
Into  the  new;    the  eternal  flow  of 

things, 
Like   a  bright  river  of  the  fields  of 

heaven, 
Shall  journey  onward  in  perpetual 

peace. 


Robert  Burns. 


TO  MAR  Y  12i  HE  A  VEN, 

Thou  ling' ring  star,  with  less'ning 
ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  usherest  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary !  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hearest  thou  the  groans  that  rend 
his  breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget  ? 

Can  1  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports 
past; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ; 

Ah!  little  thought  we  'twas   our 
last; 

Ayr  gurgling  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 
O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thicken- 
ing green ; 
The  fragrant  birch,   and  hawthorn 
hoar. 
Twined  amorous  roimd  the  raptured 
scene. 
The    flowers    sprang   wanton  to  be 
prest. 
The    birds    sang    love    on    every 
spray, — 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaimed    the    speed  of  winged 
day. 


Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory 
wakes. 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care! 
Time    but    the    impression    deeper 
makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper 
wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade! 
Where    is    thy    blissful   place  of 
rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 
nearest  thou  the  groans  that  rend 
his  breast  ? 


FOR  A'    THAT  AND  A'   THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by. 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that ; 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp ; 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What    tho'     on     hamely    fare    we 
dine, 
Wear  hodden-gray,  and  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their 
M'ine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that: 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae 
poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 


BUBNS. 


83 


Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  tliat: 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

His  ribband,  star,  and  a'  that, 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o' 
worth, 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the 
earth' 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that; 

That  man  to  man,  the  w^arld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


STANZAS  IN  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

Why  am  1  loth  to  leave  this  earthly 
scene ! 
Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing 
charms  ? 

Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of 
ill  between  : 

Some  gleams  of  sunshine  'mid  re- 
newing storms; 

Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 
Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark 
abode  ? 

For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in 
arms: 
I    tremble  to  approach  an  angry 
God, 

And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin- 
avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  1  say,  "Forgive  my  foul 
offence! " 
Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey ; 


But,  should  my  Author  health  agaiu 
dispense. 
Again  1  might  desert  fair  virtue's 
way ; 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray ; 
Again  exalt   the  brute,  and    sink 
the  man; 
Then  how  should  1  for  heavenly  mer- 
cy pray, 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mer- 
cy's plan  '? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourned,  yet  to 
temptation  ran  ? 

O  Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below ! 
If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease 
to  blow, 
And  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging 
sea; 
With   that  controlling  pow'r  assist 
ev'n  me. 
Those  headlong  furious  passions  to 
confine, 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be, 
To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allowed 
line; 
Oh,  aid  me  with  thy  help.  Omnip- 
otence Divine! 


TO  A   MOUNTAIN  DAISY. 

On  turning  one  down  -with  the  plough,  in 
April,  178(). 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour: 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas!  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  Aveet! 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  tc 
greet 

The  purpling  east, 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  hmnble  birth; 


84 


BURNS. 


Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The    flaunting    flowers  our  gardens 

yield 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun 

shield, 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod,  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 
Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawy  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow' ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
Till    billows  rage,    and    gales    blow 
hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has 

striven, 
By  hmnan  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink, 
Till,    wrenched    of    every    stay    but 
heaven. 

He,  ruined,  sink! 

Even  thou  who  mournest  the  daisy's 

fate. 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ; 
Stern    Ruin's    ploughshare    drives, 
elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till,   crushed  beneath    the  furrow's 
weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom! 


JOHN  ANDERSON,   MY  JO. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent. 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


FARE  WEE L   TO  NANCY. 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ! 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  forever! 

Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I'll  pledge 

thee! 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage 

thee! 
AYho  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves 

him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves 

him  ! 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy ; 
But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her ; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken  hearted ! 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure. 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love, and  pleasure. 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever  I 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge 
thee,  [thee. 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage 


BUBNS. 


85 


[From  To  the  Unco  Guid.] 
GOD,    THE   ONLY  JUST  JUDGE. 

Thex  gently  scan  yonr  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman ; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennie  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  hmnan : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  Why  they  do  it; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us,  [tone, 

He  knows  each  chord  —  its  various 

Each  spring  —  its  various  bias : 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams 
around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your 
flowers. 

Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 
There  simmer  first  unfald  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  my  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green 
birk. 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life. 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  moniea  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace. 

Our  parting  Was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again. 

We  tore  oursels  asunder; 
But  oh!  fell  death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the 
clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Marj% 


Oh,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly ! 
And  closed    for   aye  the  sparkling 
glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Ma  y. 


MAN  WAS  MADE   TO  MOURN. 
A  DIRGE. 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare. 
One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care ; 
His  face  was  furrowed  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest 
thou  ? 

Began  the  reverend  sage ; 
Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  con- 
strain. 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ? 
Or,  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man. 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors. 

Outspreading  far  and  wide, 
^Vliere  hundreds  labor  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride; 
I've  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 

T«'ice  forty  times  return; 
An  1  every  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  moiuTi. 

O  man !  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time! 
Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway; 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 
Which  tenfold  force  give  nature's  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


86 


BUSHNELL, 


Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right. 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn; 
Then  age  and  want,  oh!  ill-matched 
pair! 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  Pleasure's  lap  carest; 
Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  oh !  what  crowds  in  every  land 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn. 
Thro'  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves. 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn ! 

See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabored  wight, 
So  abject,  mean,  and  vile. 

Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 


And  see  his  lordly  fellow-wonn 

The  poor  petition  spurn, 
Unmindful,  tho'  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

If  I'm  designed  yon  lordling's  slave^ 

By  nature's  law  designed,  — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast : 
This  partial  view  of  humankind 

Is  surely  not  the  last ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born. 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

O  death!   the   poor   man's    dearest 
friend. 

The  kindest  and  the  best! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn ; 
But,  oh !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  moimi ! 


Louisa  Bushnell. 


DEL  A  Y. 


Taste  the  sweetness  of  delaying. 
Till  the  hour  shall  come  for  saying 

That  I  love  you  with  my  soul; 
Have  you  never  thought  your  heart 
Finds  a  something  in  the  part, 

It  would  miss  from  out  the  whole? 

In  this  rosebud  you  have  given. 
Sleeps  that  perfect  rose  of  heaven 

That  in  Fancy's  garden  blows; 
Wake  it  not  by  touch  or  sound. 
Lest,    perchance,    'twere    lost,   not 
found, 

In  the  opening  of  the  rose. 


Dear  to  me  is  this  reflection 
Of  a  fair  and  far  perfection, 

Shining  through  a  veil  undrawn; 
Ask  no  question,  then,  of  fate; 
Yet  a  little  longer  wait. 

In  the  beauty  of  the,  dawn. 

Through  our  mornings,  veiled   and 

tender, 
Shines  a  day  of  golden  splendor. 

Never  yet  fulfilled  by  day; 
Ah!  if  love  be  made  complete, 
Will  it,  can  it,  be  so  sweet 

As  this  ever  sweet  delay? 


BUTLER. 


87 


Samuel  Butler. 


LOVE. 

Love  is  too  great  a  happiness 
For  wretched  mortals  to  possess ; 
For  could  it  hold  inviolate 
Against  those  cruelties  of  fate 
Which  all  felicities  below 
By  rigid  laws  are  subject  to, 
It  would  become  a  bliss  too  high 


For  perishing  mortality ; 
Translate  to  earth  the  joys  above; 
For  nothing  goes  to  Heaven  but  Love 
All  love  at  first,  like  generous  wine, 
Ferments  and  frets  until  'tis  fine; 
For  when  'tis  settled  on  the  lee, 
And  from  the  impurer  matter  free, 
Becomes  the  richer  still,  the  older, 
And  proves  the  pleasanter,  the  colder, 


William  Allen  Butler. 


WORK  AND   WORSHIP. 
"Laborareest  orare."  — St.  Augustine. 

Charlemagne,    the   mighty   mon- 
arch. 
As     through     Metten   Wood     he 
strayed, 
Found  the  holy  hermit,  Hutto, 
Toiling  in  the  forest  glade. 

In  his  hand  the  woodman's  hatchet. 
By  his  side  the  knife  and  twine. 

There  he  cut  and  bound  the  faggots 
From  the  gnarled  and  stunted  pine. 

Well  the  monarch  knew  the  hermit 
For  his  pious  works  and  cares, 

And  the  wonders  which  had  followed 
From  his  vigils,  fasts,  and  prayers. 

Much  he  marvelled  now  to  see  him 
Toiling  thus,  with  axe  and  cord ; 

And  he  cried  in  scorn,  "  O  Father,  . 
Is  it  thus  you  serve  the  Lord  ?" 


L 


But  the  hermit  resting  neither 
Hand  nor  hatchet,  meekly  said : 
He  who  does  no  daily  labor 
May  not  ask  for  daily  bread. 


'*^Think  not  that  ray  graces  slumber 
While  1  toil  throughout  the  day ; 
For  all  honest  work  is  worship, 
And  to  labor  is  to  pray. 


"  Think  not  that  the  heavenly  bless- 
ing 

From  the  workman' s  hand  removes ; 
Who  does  best  his  task  appointed, 

Him  the  Master  most  approves.  " 

While  he  spoke  the  hermit,  pausing 
For  a  moment,  raised  his -eyes 

Where  the  overhanging  branches 
Swayed  beneath  the  smiset  skies. 

Through  the  dense  and  vaulted  for- 
est 

Straight  the  level  sunbeam  came, 
Shining  like  a  gilded  rafter. 

Poised  upon  a  sculptured  frame. 

Suddenly,  with  kindling  features, 
AVliile  he  breathes  a  silent  prayer. 

See,  the  hermit  throws  his  hatchet. 
Lightly,  upward  in  the  air. 

Bright  the  well-worn  steel  is  gleam- 
ing, 

As  it  flashes  through  the  shade, 
And  descending,  lo !  the  sunbeam 

Holds  it  dangling  by  the  blade! 

"  See,  my  son,"  exclaimed  the  her 
mit,  — 

"  See  the  token  heaven  has  sent; 
Thus  to  humble,  patient  effort 

Faith's  miraculous  aid  is  lent. 


88 


BUTLER. 


r 


V. 


Toiling,  hoping,  often  fainting. 

As  we  labor.  Love  Divine 
Through  the  shadows  pours  its  sun- 
light, 
Crowns  the  work,  vouchsafes  the 
sign!" 

Homeward,   slowly,  went  the  mon- 
arch. 

Till  he  reached  his  palace  hall, 
Where  he  strode  among  his  warriors. 

He  the  bravest  of  them  all. 

Soon  the  Benedictine  Abbey 
Rose  beside  the  hermit's  cell; 

He,  by  royal  liandG  invested. 
Ruled,  as  abbot,  long  and  well. 

Now  beside  the  rushing  Danube 
Still  its  ruined  walls  remain. 

Telling  of  the  hermit's  patience, 
And  the  zeal  of  Charlemagne. 


THE  BUSTS   OF  GOETHE  AND 
SCHILLER. 

This  is  Goethe,  with  a  forehead 
Like  the  fabled  front  of  Jove; 

In  its  massive  lines  the  tokens 
More  of  majesty  than  love. 

This  is  Schiller,  in  whose  features, 
With  their  passionate  calm  regard. 

We  behold  the  true  ideal 
Of  the  high,  heroic  bard, 

Wliom  the  inward  world  of  feeling 
And  the  outward  world  of  sense 

To  the  endless  labor  summon. 
And  the  endless  recompense. 

These  are  they,  sublime  and  silent, 
From  whose  living  lips  have  rung 

Words  to  be  remembered  ever 
In  the  noble  German  tongue ; 

Thoughts  whose  inspiration,  kindling 
Into  loftiest  speech  or  song. 

Still  through  all  the  listening  ages 
Pours  its  torrent  swift  and  strong. 


As  to-day  in  sculptured  marble 
Side  by  side  the  poets  stand. 

So  they  stood   in  life's  great  strug- 
gle, 
Side  by  side  and  hand  to  hand, 

In  the  ancient  German  city. 
Dowered    with   many  a  deathless 
name, 

Where  they  dwelt  and  toiled  together, 
Sharing  each  the  other's  fame. 

One  till  evening's  lengthening  shad- 
ows 
.   Gently  stilled  his  faltering  lips, 
But  the  other's  sun  at  noonday 
Shrouded  in  a  swift  eclipse. 

There    their    names    are    household 
treasures. 

And  the  simplest  child  you  meet 
Guides  you  where  the  house  of  Goethe 

Fronts  upon  the  quiet  street; 

And,  hard  by,  the  modest  mansion 
Where  full  many  a  heart  has  felt 

Memories  uncounted  clustering 
Round  the  words,  "  Here  Schiller 
dwelt." 

In  the  churchyard  both  are  buried. 
Straight  bey^yud  the  narrow  gate, 

In  the  mauscleum  sleeping, 
With  Duke  Charles,  in  sculptured 
sta*.e. 

For  the  monarch  loved  the  poets, 
Called  them  to  him  from  afar. 

Wooed  them  near  his   court  to  lin- 
ger, 
And  the  planets  sought  the  star. 

He,  his  larger  gifts  of  fortune 
With  their  larger  fame  to  blend, 

Living  counted  it  an  honor 
That  they    named    him    as    their 
friend ; 

Dreading  to  be  all  forgotten, 
Still  their  greatness  to  divide, 

Dying  prayed  to  have  his  poets 
Buried  one  on  either  side. 


BUTTS  —  BUTTERWORTH. 


89 


But  this  suited  not  the  gold-laced 

Ushers  of  the  royal  tomb, 
Where  the  princely  house  of  Weimar 

Slumbered  in  majestic  gloom. 

So  they  ranged  the  coffins  justly. 
Each  with  fitting  rank  and  stamp, 

And  with  shows  of  court  precedence 
Mocked     the    grave's    sepulchral 
damp. 


Fitly  now  the  clownish  sexton 
Narrow  courtier-rules  rebukes ; 

First  he  shows  the  grave  of  Goethe, 
Schiller's     then,    and     last  — the 
Duke's. 

Vainly  'midst  these  truthful  shadows 
Pride  would  flaunt  her  painted  wing; 

Here  the  monarch  waits  in  silence, 
And  the  poet  is  the  king! 


Mary   F.   Butts. 


OTHER  MOTHERS. 

Mother,  in  the  sunset  glow, 
C-rooning  child-songs  sweet  and  low, 
Eyes  soft  shining,  heart  at  rest, 
Rose-leaf  cheek  against  thy  breast. 

Thinkest  thou  of  those  who  weep 
O'er  their  babies  fast  asleep 
Where  the  evening  dews  lie  wet 
On  their  broidered  coverlet, 

Whose  cold  cradle  is  the  grave. 
Where  wild  roses  nod  and  wave. 
Taking  for  their  blossoms  fair 
What  a  spirit  once  did  wear '? 


Mother,  crooning  soft  and  low, 
Let  not  all  thy  fancies  go, 
Like  swift  birds,  to  the  blue  skies 
Of  thy  darling's  happy  eyes. 

Count  thy  baby's  curls  for  beads. 
As  a  sweet  saint  intercedes, 
But  on  some  fair  ringlet's  gold 
Let  a  tender  prayer  be  told. 

For  the  mother,  all  alone. 
Who  for  singing  maketh  moan, 
AVlio  doth  ever  vainly  seek 
Dimpled  arms  and  velvet  cheek. 


HEZEKIAH    BUTTERWORTH. 


THE  FOUNT AFN  OF   YOUTH. 
A  DREAM  OF  PONCE  DE   LEON. 

A  STORY  of  Ponce  de  Leon, 

A  voyager  withered  and  old, 
Who  came  to  the  sunny  Antilles, 

In  quest  of  a  country  of  gold. 
He  was  wafted  past  islands  of  spices, 

As  bright  as  the  emerald  seas, 
Where  all  the  forests  seem  singing. 

So  thick  were  the  birds  on  the  trees ; 
The  sea  was  clear  as  the  azure. 

And  so  deep  and  so  pure  was  the  sky 
That  the  jasper-walled  city  seemed 
shining 

Just  out  of  the  reach  of  the  eye. 


By  day  his  light  canvas  he  shifted, 
And  round  strange    harbors    and 
bars : 
By  night,  on  the  full  tides  he  drifted, 
'Neath  the  low-hanging  lamps  of 
the  stars.  [sunset, 

'Neath  the  glimmering  gates  of  the 
In  the  twilight  empurpled  and  dim, 
The  sailors  uplifted  their  voices, 

And  sang  to  the  Vir<:jin  a  hymn. 
"  Thank  the  Lord! "said  De  Leon,  the 
sailor, 
At  the  close  of  the  rounded  refrain ; 
"  Thank  the  Lord,  the  Almighty,  who 
blesses 
The  ocean-swept  banner  of  Spain ! 


90 


BUTTERWORTH. 


The  shadowy  world  is  behind  us, 

The  shining  Cipango  before; 
Each  morning  tlie  sun  rises  brighter 

On  ocean,  and  island,  and  shore. 
And  still  shall  our  spirits  grow  lighter, 

As  prospects  more  glowing  unfold; 
Then  on,  merry  men!  to  Cipango, 

To  the  west,  and  the  regions  of 
gold!" 

There  came  to.  De  Leon  the  sailor, 

Some  Indian  sages,  who  told 
Of  a  region  so  bright  that  the  waters 

Were  sprinkled  with  islands  of  gold. 
And  they  added:  "  The  leafy  Biniini, 

A  fair  land  of  grottos  and  bowers 
Is  there;  and  a  wonderful  fountain 

Upsprings    from    its    gardens    of 
flowers. 
That  fountain  gives  life  to  the  dying. 

And  youth  to  the  aged  restores : 
They  flourish  in  beauty  eternal, 

Who  set    but    their  feet    on    its 
shores!" 
Then  answered  De  Leon,  the  sailor: 

''  1  am  withered,  and  wrinkled,  and 
old; 
I  would  rather  discover  that  fountain 

Than  a  country  of  diamonds  and 
gold." 

Away  sailed  De  Leon,  the  sailor; 

Away  with  a  wonderful  glee, 
Till  the  birds  were  more  rare  in  the 
azure. 

The  dolphins  more  rare  in  the  sea. 
Away  from  the  shady  Bahamas, 

Over  waters  no  sailor  had  seen. 
Till  again  on  his  wandering  vision, 

Rose  clustering  islands  of  green. 
Still  onward  he  sped  till  the  breezes 

Were  laden  with  odors,  and  lo ! 
A  country  embedded  with  flowers, 

A  country  with  rivers  aglow! 
More  bright  than  the  sunny  Antilles, 

More  fair  than  the  shady  Azores. 
"Thank  the  Lord!"  said  De  Leon, 
the  sailor, 

As  feasted  his  eye  on  the  shores, 
"We    have   come   to   a  region,  my 
brothers, 

More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth; 
And  here  is  the  life-giving  fountain,  — 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth." 


Then  landed  De  Lton,  the  sailor, 

Unfurled  his  old  banner,  andsimg; 
But  lie  felt  very  wrinkled  and  with- 
ered. 
All  around   was  so  fresh  and  so 
young. 
The  palms,  ever  verdant,  were  bloom- 
ing, 
Their  blossoms  e'en  margined  the 
seas; 
O'ertlie  streams  of  the  forests  bright 
flowers 
Hung  deep  from  the  branches  of 
trees. 
"Praise  the  Lord!"  sang  De  Leon, 
the  sailor; 
His  heart  was  with  rapture  aflame; 
And  he  said:  "Be  the  name  of  this 
region 
By  Florida  given  to  fame. 
'T  is  a  fair,  a  delectable  country, 

More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth; 
I   soon   shall    partake  of  the  foun- 
tain,— 
The  beaiilif  ul  Fountain  of  Youth ! ' ' 

But  wandered  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

In  search  of  the  fountain  in  vain; 
Ko  waters  were  there  to  restore  him 

To  freshness  and  beauty  again. 
And  his  anchor  he  lifted,  and  nuir- 
mured, 
As  the  tears  gathered  fast  in  his  eye, 
"I  must  leave  this  fair  land  of  the 
flowers. 
Go  back  o'er  the  ocean,  and  die." 
Then  back  by  the  dreary  Tortugas, 

And  back  by  the  shady  Azores, 
He  was  borne  on  the  storm-smitten 
waters 
To   the   calm  of    his  own  native 
shores. 
And  that  he  grew  older  and  older. 

His  footsteps  enfeebled  gave  proof. 
Still  he  thirsted   in  dreams  for  the 
fountain,  — 
The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 


One  day  the  old  sailor  lay  dying 
On  the  shores  of  a  tropical  isle. 

And  his   heart  was  enkindled   with 

rapture;  [smile. 

And  his  face  lighted  up  with  a 


BYRON. 


91 


He  thought  of  the  sunny  Antilles, 

He  thought  of  the  shady  Azores, 
He  thought  of  the  dreamy  Bahamas, 

He  thought  of  fair  Florida's  shores. 
And,  when  in  his  mind  he  passed  over 

His  wonderful  travels  of  old, 
He  thought  of  the  heavenly  country, 

Of  the  city  of  jasper  and  gold. 
"Tliankthe  Lord!"  said  De  Leon, 
the  sailor,  (the  truth, 

"  Thank  the  Lord  for  the  light  of 
I  now  am  approaching  the  fountain, 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth." 


The  cabin  was  silent :  at  twilight 
They  lieard    the    birds  singing  a 
psalm. 
And  the  wind  of  the  ocean  low  sigh- 
ing 
Through  groves  of  the  orange  and 
palm. 
The  sailor  still  lay  on  his  pallet, 
'Neath  the  low-hanging  vines  of 
the  roof ; 
His    soul    had    gone    forth    to    dis- 
cover 
The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 


Lord  Byron  (George  Gordon  Noel). 


PROMETHEUS. 

Titan!  to  whose  immortal  eyes 
The  sufferings  of  mortality, 

,     Seen  in  their  sad  reality. 

Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise ; 

What  was  thy  pity's  recompense  ? 

A  silent  suffering,  and  intense ; 

The   rock,    the    vulture,    and    the 
chain. 

All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain. 

The  agony  they  do  not  show 

The  suffocating  sense  of  woe, 
Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness. 

And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 

Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 
Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 

Titan !  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 
Between   the    suffering   and    the 

will, 
Which  tortm-e  where  they  cannot 

kill; 
And  the  inexorable  heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  fate, 
The  ruling  principle  of  hate, 
Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate, 
Refused  thee  even  the  boon  to  die; 
The  wretched  gift  eternity 
Was  thine  —  and  thou  hast  borne  it 

well. 


All  that  the  Thunderer  wrung  from 

thee 
Was  but    the  menace  which  flung 

back 
On  him  the  torments  of  thy  rack: 
The  fate  thou  didst  so  well   fore- 
see. 
But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell ; 
And  in  thy  silence  was  his  sentence, 
And  in  his  soul  a  vain  repentance. 
And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings  trem- 
bled. 

Thy  godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind. 
To  render  with  thy  precept  less 
The  sum  of  human  wretchedness, 

And  strengthen  man  with  his  own 
mind ; 

But  baffled  as  thou  wert  from  high, 

Still  in  thy  patient  energy. 

In  the  endurance,  and  repulse 
Of  thine  impenetrable  spirit. 

Which  earth  and  heaven  could  not 
convulse, 
A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit: 

Thou  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 
To  mortals  of  their  fate  and  force ; 

Like  thee,  man  is  in  part  divine, 

A    troubled    stream    from    a    pure 
source ; 

And  man  in  portions  can  foresee 


92 


BTRON. 


His  own  funereal  destiny; 
His  wretchedness,  and  liis  resistance, 
And  his  sad  unallied  existence: 
To  wliich  his  spirit  may  oppose 
Itself  —  and  equal  to  all  woes, 

And  a  firm  will,  and  a  deep  sense, 
Which  even  in  torture  can  descry 

Its  own  concentered  recompense, 
Triumphant  where  it  dares  defy. 
And  making  death  a  victory  I 


WHEN    COLDNESS     WRAPS     THIS 
SUFFERING   CLAY. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering 
clay, 
Ah!    whither  strays  the  immortal 
mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stray, 
But  leaves  its  darkened  dust  be- 
hind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 
By  steps  each    planet's  heavenly 
way? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 
A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecayed, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  ali. 
All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  displayed. 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 

So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds. 

And  all  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  Creation  peopled  earth. 
Its  eyes  shall  roll   through  chaos 
back ; 
And  where  the  furthest  heaven  had 
birth. 
The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes. 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 
Wliile    sun   is  quenched  or  system 
breaks. 
Fixed  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  Love,  Hope,  Hate,  or  Fear, 
■     It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure: 
An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year; 
Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 


Away,  away,  without  a  wing, 
O'er  all,  through  all,  its  "thoughts 
shall  fly; 

A  nameless  and  eternal  thing. 
Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


SUN  OF  THE  SLEEPLESS. 

Sun  of  the  sleepless !  melancholy  star ! 

Whose  tearful  beam  glows  tremu- 
lously far, 

That  show'st  the  darkness  thou  canst 
not  dispel. 

How  like  art  thou  to  joy  remembered 
well ! 

So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other 
days. 

Which  shines,  but  warms  not  with 
its  powerless  rays ; 

A  night-beam  sorrow  watches  to  be- 
hold, 

Distinct,  but  distant  —  clear  —  but 
oh,  how  cold ! 


FARE   THEE   WELL. 

Fare  thee  well!  and  if  for  ever. 
Still  for  ever,  fare  thee  ivell ; 

Even  though  unforgiving,  never 
'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

Would  th^t  breast  were  bared  before 
thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain. 
While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er 
thee. 
Which    thou    ne'er    canst    know 
again : 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced 
over. 

Every  inmost  thought  could  show ! 
Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 

'Twas  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 

Through  the  world  for  this  commend 
thee  — 

Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow. 
Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 

Founded  on  another's  woe: 


BYRON. 


Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 
Coulil  no  other  arm  be  found, 

Than  the  one  which  once  embraced 
me, 
To  hidict  a  cureless  womid  ? 


Yet,  oh  yst,  thyself  deceive  not: 
Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 

But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 
Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away : 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth  — 
Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding, 
beat'; 
And    the    undying    thought    which 
paineth 
Is  —  that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 
Than  the  wail  above  the  dead ; 

Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 
Wake  us  from  a  widowed  bed. 

And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather, 
When  our  child's  first  accents 
flow. 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "Father!" 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless 
thee, 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed ! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  never  more  mayst  see, 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  know- 
est, 

All  my  madness  none  can  know ; 
All  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest, 

Whither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken ; 

Pride,  which   not    a   world   could 
bow. 
Bows  to  thee  —  by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soid  forsakes  me  now : 


But  'tis  done  —  all  words  are  idle  — 
Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 

But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. 

Fare  thee  well!  —  thus  disunited. 
Torn  from  every  nearer  tie. 

Seared  in  heart,  and  lone  and  blighted, 
More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON. 

Eternal     spirit    of  the  chainless 
mind! 
Brightest    in    dungeons.    Liberty! 

thou  art, 
For    there    thy    habitation    is  the 
heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone 

can  bind ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are 
consigned  — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's 

dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their 
martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on 

every  wind. 
Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for 
'twas  trod. 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
W^orn,   as    if    thy  cold  pavement 
were  a  sod. 
By    Bonnivard !  —  May    none    those 

marks  efface ; 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


SHE    WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless 
grace, 


94 


BYRON. 


Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  tlioughts  serenely  sweet  ex- 
press, 

How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling- 
place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that 
brow, 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that 
glow. 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


INSCRIPTION 

ON  THE  MOXUMEXT  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S 
DOG  BOATSWAIN. 

When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns 

to  eartli, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but    upheld    by 

birtli, 
Tlie  sculptor's  art  exalts  the  pomp 

of  woe. 
And  storied  urns  record  who  rests 

below ; 
When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is 

seen. 
Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should 

have  been. 
But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest 

friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  de- 
fend, 
Wliose  lionest  heart  is  still  his  mas- 
ter's own, 
Wlio  labors,  figlits,  lives,  breathes  for 

liim  alone, 
Unlionored  falls,   unnoticed  all  his 

worth, 
Denied  in  lieaven  the  soul  he  held  on 

earth ; 
While  man,  vain  insect!  hopes  to  be 

forgiven. 
And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive 

heaven. 
O    man!    thou  feeble  tenant  of  an 

hour, 


Debased  by  slavery,   or  corrupt  by 

power, 
Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee 

with  disgust, 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust ! 
Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a 

cheat, 
Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  de- 
ceit! 
By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 
Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee 

blush  for  shame. 
Ye !  who  perchance  behold  this  simple 

urn, 
Pass  on  —  it  honors  none  you  wish 

to  mourn ; 
To  mark  a  friend's  remains   these 

stones  arise ; 
1  never  knew  but  one  —  and  here  ho 

lies. 


MAID   OF  ATHENS. 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part. 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 

SwJ?  (lov,  ffdj  ayaTtCi.* 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Wooed  by  each  ^Egean  wind ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheek's  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

Sw'7  (inVf  ads  otyaTTU)* 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 

Sa»»7  fiovy  ods  dyaTTw, 

Maid  of  Athens !  I  am  gone : 
Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?    No ! 

£ai>7  fiov,  CTQj  ay«TriD. 
*  Zoe  iiioii,  sas  agapo,  My  life,  I  love  you. 


BYRON. 


95 


EPISTLE   TO  AUGUSTA. 

My  sister!  my  sweet  sister!  if  a  name 

Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be 
thine; 

Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I 
claim 

No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer 
mine: 

Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the 
same — 

A  loved  regret  which  1  would  not  re- 
sign. 

There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  des- 
tiny,— 

A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home 
with  thee. 


The  first  were  nothing  —  had  I  still 

the  last, 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness ; 
But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou 

hast, 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make 

them  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's, 

and  past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress ; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire'sfate 

of  yore, — 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 


If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath 
been 

In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 

Of  perils,  overlooked  or  unforeseen, 

1  have  sustained  my  share  of  worldly 
shocks, 

The  fault  was  mine;  nor  do  I  seek  to 
screen. 

My  errors  with  defensive  paradox; 

I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  over- 
throw. 

The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be 

their  reward. 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since 

the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that 

which  marred 
The  gift, —  a  fate,  or  will,  that  walked 

astray ; 


And  I  at  times  have  found  the  strug- 
gle hard. 

And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds 
of  clay : 

But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  sur- 
vive, 

If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  ar- 
rive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little 

day 
I  have  outlived,  ani  yet  I  am  not  old; 
And  when  1  look  on  this,  the  petty 

spray 
Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which 

have  rolled 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts 

away; 
Something —  I  know  not  what  —  does 

still  uphold 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience;  —  not  in 

vain. 
Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  pur- 
chase pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 

Within  me  —  or  perhaps  a  cold  de- 
spair, 

Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  re- 
cur,— 

Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 

( For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul 
refer. 

And  with  light  armor  we  may  learn 
to  bear, ) 

Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet; 
which  was  not 

The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 
In  happy  childhood ;  trees,  and  flow- 
ers, and  brooks. 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I 

dwelt 
Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to 

books. 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can 

melt 
My  heart  with  recognition  of  their 

looks ; 
And  even  at  moments  I  think  I  could 

see 
Some  living  thing  to  love  —  but  none 

like  thee. 


96 


BYRON. 


Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which 

create 
A  fund  for  contemplation,  —  to  ad- 
mire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date: 
But    something    worthier    do    such 

scenes  inspire: 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate, 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most 

desire. 
And,  above  all,  aiake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own 
of  old. 

0  that  thou  wert  but  with  me! — but 

1  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  re- 
gret; 
There  may  be  others  which  I  less 
may  show;  — 

1  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and 

yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy. 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  altered  eye. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear 
lake. 

By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine 
no  more. 

Leman's  is  fair;  but  think  not  I  for- 
sake 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer 
shore : 

Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  mem- 
ory make 

Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes 
before ; 

Though  like  all  things  which  I  have 
loved,  they  are 

Resigned  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 

The  world  is  all  before  me ;  but  I  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will 

comply  — 
It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask. 
To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky, 
To    see    her  gentle  face  without  a 

mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 
She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now 

shall  be 
My  sister  —  till  I  look  again  on  thee. 


I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one; 
And  that  I  would  not ;  —  for  at  length 

I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life 

begun 
The  earliest  —  even  the  only  paths 

for  me. 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to 

shun, 
I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be ; 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me 

would  have  slept; 
I  had  not  suffered,  and  thou  hadst 

not  wept. 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I  to  do? 
Little  with  Love,   and  least  of  all 

with  Fame ; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,   and 

with  me  grew. 
And  made  me  all  which  they  can 

make  —  a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue ; 
Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over  —  I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone 

before. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  fu- 
ture may 

From  me  demand  but  little  of  my 
care ; 

I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day; 

Having  survived  so  many  things  that 
were ; 

My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but 
the  prey 

Of  ceaseless  vigils ;  for  I  had  the  share 

Of  life  which  might  have  filled  a  cen- 
tury. 

Before  its  fourth  Li  time  had  passed 
me  by. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be 
to  come 

I  am  content ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 

Not  thankless, —  for  within  the 
crowded  sum 

Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times 
would  steal. 

And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  be- 
numb 

My  feelings  farther.  Nor  shall  I 
conceal 


BYRON. 


97 


That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look 

around, 
And  worship  Nature  with  a  thought 

profound. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy 
heart 

I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine ; 

We  were  and  are  —  1  am,  even  as 
thou  art  — 

Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  re- 
sign; 

It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart, 

From  life's  commencement  to  its 
slow  decline 

We  are  entwined  —  let  death  come 
slow  or  fast, 

The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures 
the  last. 


[From  The  Giaour.'] 
THE  FIRST  DAY  OF  DEATH. 

He  who   hath    bent    him    o'er   the 

dead 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled. 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness. 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty 

lingers), 
And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air. 
The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there, 
The    fixed    yet    tender    traits    that 

streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 
And  —  but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not 

now, 
And  but  for  that  chill  changeless 

brow. 
Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon; 
Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone, 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous 

hour, 
He    still    might  doubt  the  tyrant's 

power; 
^o  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 
The  first  last  look  by  death  revealed ! 


[From  The  Giaour. 1 
LOVE. 

Yes,     Love    indeed    is    light    from 
heaven ; 

A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
VVitli  angels  shared,  by  Allah  given, 

To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above. 
But  heaven  itself  descends  in  love; 
A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 
To    wean    from    self    each    sordid 

thought ; 
A  ray  of  Him  who  formed  the  wliole; 
A  gloiy  circling  round  the  soul ! 


iFrom  The  Dream,] 
SLEEP. 

Our  life  is  twofold!  Sleep  hath  its 
own  world, 

A  boundary  between  the  things  mis- 
named 

Death  and  existence:  Sleep  hath  its 
own  world. 

And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality. 

And  dreams  in  their  development 
have  breath. 

And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the 
touch  of  joy; 

They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  wak- 
ing thoughts. 

They  take  a  weight  from  off  our 
waking  toils, 

They  do  divide  our  being;  they  be- 
come 

A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 

And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity ; 

They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past — 
they  speak 

Like  sibyls  of  the  future;  they  have 
power  — 

The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 

They  make  us  what  we  were  not  — 
what  they  will. 

And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's 
gone  by, 

The  dream  of  vanished  shadows  — 
Are  they  so  ? 

Is  not  the  past  all  shadow?  Wliat 
are  they  ? 


98 


BYRON. 


Creations  of  the  mind  ?  —  The  mind 

can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its 

own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been, 

and  give 
A  breath  to  form  which  can  outlive 

all  flesh. 
I    would    recall    a    vision    which   I 

dreamed 
Perchance  in  sleep  —  for  in  itself  a 

thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of 

years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 


{From  Don  Juan.l 
THE  ISLES   OF  GREECE. 

The    isles  of  Greece,   the    isles   of 
Greece !  Lsung, 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and 
Where    grew  the    arts  of  war  and 
peace,  — 
Where    Delos    rose    and    Phoebus 
sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores 
refuse : 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than    your    sires'    "  Islands  of   the 
Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 
I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still 
be  free ; 

For  standing  on  the  Persian's  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis: 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations ;  —  all  were  his ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were 
they  ? 


And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art 
thou. 

My  country  ?  On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 
And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine. 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered 
race. 
To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 
For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 
For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a 
tear. 

Must  we  but  w^eep  o'er  days  more 
blest  ? 
Must  we  but  blush  ?  —  Our  fathers 
bled. 
Earth!    render   back    from  out  thy 
breast 
A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three. 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah!  no;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall. 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head. 
But  one  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come ! " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In    vain  —  in    vain ;      strike    other 
chords ; 
Fill    high    the   cup   with   Samian 
wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 
And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet. 
Where    is    the    Pyrrhic     phalanx 
gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave,  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  I 
We  will  not  think  of  themes  like 
these ! 


THE    ISLES    OF    GREECE 


Page  98. 


BYRON. 


99 


It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 
He     served  —  but    served      Poly- 
crates  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 
Was  freedom's    best  and    bravest 
friend ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 
Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would 
lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill    high   the    bowl   with     Samian 
wine ! 
On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
ENists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 
And    there,   perhaps,   some  seed  is 

sown. 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and 
sells ; 
In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells : 
But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 
AVould  break  your  shield,    however 
broad. 

Fill    high    the    bowl    with    Samian 
wine ! 
Our    virgins    dance    beneath   the 
shade  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 
But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves. 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle 
slaves. 


Place  me  on  Sunium's  marble  steep. 
Where    nothing    save    the   waves 
andl 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep : 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and 
die; 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 
Dash    down    yon    cup    of    Samian 
wine ! 


[  From  the  Prophecy  of  Dante.'] 
GENIUS. 

Maxy    are    poets  who  have  never 

penned 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance, 

the  best ; 
They  felt,  and  loved  and  died,  but 

would  not  lend 
Their    thoughts   to  meaner  beings; 

they  compressed 
The  God  within  them,  and  rejoined 

the  stars 
Unlaurelled    upon  earth,   but  far 

more  blessed 
Than  those  who  are  degraded  by  the 

jars 
Of    passion,    and    their    frailties 

linked  to  fame. 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,   but 

W-^  of  scars. 
Many  poets,    but    without    the 

nc*ine ; 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overf eeling  good  or  ill ;  and 

aim 
At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate 
And    be  the  new  Prometheus  of 

new  men. 
Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and 

tlien,  too  late. 
Finding    the   pleasure  given  repaid 

with  pain. 
And  vultures  to  the  lieart  of  the 

bestoAver, 
Who,   having    lavished    his    high 

gift  in  vainv 
Lies  chained  to  his  lone  rock  by  the 

sea-shore ! 
So  be  it;  we  can  bear. —  But  thus 

all  they 
Whose  intellect  is  an  o'ermastering 

power, 
Wliich  still  recoils  from  its  encum- 
bering clay. 
Or  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe'er 
The    forms   which    their  creation 

may  essay. 
Are  bards;  the  kindled  marble's  bust 

may  wear 
More    poesy    upon     its    speaking 

brow 
Tlian  aught  less  than  the  Homeric 

page  may  bear; 


100 


BYRON. 


One  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  life 
may  glow, 

Or  deify  tlie  canvas  till  it  shine 

With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  be- 
low, 
That  they  who  kneel  to  idols  so  di- 
vine 

Break  no  commandment,  for  high 
heaven  is  there 

Transfused,     transtigurated  :    and 
the  line 
Of  poesy  which  peoples  but  the  air 

With  thought  and   beings  of  our 
thought  reflected, 

Can  do  no  more :  then  let  the  artist 
share 
The  palm;  he  shares  the  peril,  and 
dejected 

Faints  o'er  the  labor  unapproved 
—Alas! 

Despair  and  genius  are  too  oft  con- 
nected. 


[From  Childe  Harold.] 

THE  MISERY  OF  EXCESS. 

TO    IXEZ. 

Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow, 
Alas !  I  cannot  smile  again : 

Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 
Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in 
vain. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 
I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 
A  pang,  even  thou  must  fail    to 
soothe  ? 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 
Xor  low  ambition's  honors  lost. 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state. 
And  fly  from  all  I  prize  the  most ! 

It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see ; 

To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings  : 
Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  f oi- 
me. 


It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 
The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore; 

That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
And  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 

What  exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 
To  zones,  though  more  and  more 
remote. 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 
The   blight    of   life — the  demon 
Thought. 

Yet,  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 
And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake ; 

Oh!    may    they    still    of    transport 
dream. 
And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 

Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to 

go, 
With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 
And  all  my  solace  is  to  know. 
What  e'er  betides,  I've  known  the 

worst. 

What  is  that  worst  ?    Nay,  do  not 
a,sk  — 
In  pity  from  the  search  forbear  : 
Smile  on  —  nor  venture  to  unmask 
Man's  heart,   and  view  the  Hell 
that's  there. 


[From  Childe  Harold.] 
APOSTROPHE   TO  THE   OCEAN. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless 

woods, 
There   is   a  rapture   on    the   lonely 

shore. 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By   the  deep  sea,  and   music  in  its 

roar : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature 

more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which 

I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  be- 
fore. 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot 

all  conceal. 


BYBON. 


101 


Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue 

Ocean  —  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee 

m  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his 

control 
Stops    with    the    shore;  —  upon  the 

watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth 

remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his 

own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of 

rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bub- 
bling groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  imcof- 

fined,  and  unknown. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike 

the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations 

quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  cap- 
itals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs 

make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  sno\N7^ 

flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves, 

which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of 

Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in 

all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,    Greece,    Rome,    Carthage, 

what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while 

they  were  free. 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores 

obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their 

decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts:  — 

not  so  thou ;  — 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves' 

play  — 
Time  writes   no    wrinkle  on    thine 

azure  brow  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou 

rollest  now. 


Tlvou'glo^ious  mirror,  ^heJe'^'l/e'AI- 

'•     mi^^hty's  form      '  •  '       ••-  •  • 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, 
Calm    or    convulsed  —  in   breeze    or 

gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ;  —  boundless,   endless, 

and  sublime  — 
The  image  of  eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  even  from  out  thy 

slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made : 

each  zone 
Obeys  thee:  thou  goest  forth,  dread, 

fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and 

my  joy  [to  be 

Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast 

Borne,    like    thy    bubbles,    onward: 

from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers  —  they 
to  me  [sea 

Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening 
Made  them  a  terror  —  'twas  a  pleas- 
ing fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And,  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and 

near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  — 
as  I  do  here. 


[From  Childe  Harold.] 

CALM   AND    TEMPEST   AT  NIGHT 
ON  LAKE  LEMAN  {GENEVA). 

Clear,  placid    Leman!  thy  con- 
trasted lake, 
With  the  wide  world  I  dwelt  in  is  a 

thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness, 

to  forsake  [spring. 

Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once 

I  loved 
Torn    ocean's    roar,  -but  thy  soft 

murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice 

reproved, 
That  I  with  stem  delights  should  e'er 

have  been  so  moved. 


102 


BYRON. 


',  li,  ts.tiae  Jt^ushcOf,  n^ht.  a,a4  all.be- 

Thy  margin  and   the  mountains, 
dusk,  yet  clear, 

Mellowed  and  mingling,   yet  dis- 
tinctly seen. 

Save  darkened   Jura,   whose  capt 
heights  appear 

Precipitously  steep;    and  drawing 
near 

There  breathes  a  living  fragrance 
from  the  shore, 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ; 
on  the  ear 

Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  sus- 
pended oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good- 
night carol  more. 


He    is  an   evening    reveller    who 

makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his 

fill; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out 

the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is 

still, 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on 

the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight 

dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they 

infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit 

of  her  hues. 

Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of 

heaven, 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would 

read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be 

forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal 

state. 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for 

ye  are  . 
A  beauty,  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from 

afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have 

named  themselves  a  star. 


All  heaven  and   earth  are  still  — 

though  not  in  sleep. 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when 

feeling  most; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts 

too  deep :  — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still:  — 

From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,   to  the  lulled  lake    and 

mountain-coast. 
All  is  concentred  in  a  life  intense. 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf 

is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a 

sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and 

defence. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so 

felt 
In  solitude,   where    we  are    least 

alone ; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being, 

then  doth  melt. 
And  purifies  from  self :  it  is  a  tone, 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which 

makes  known 
Eternal    harmony,    and    sheds    a 

charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  stone. 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty;  — 

'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial 

power  to  harm. 

Not  vainly   did  the  early  Persian 

make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the 

peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  and 

thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwalled  temple,  there  to 

seek 
The  Spirit  in  whose  honor  shrines 

are  weak, 
Upreared  of  human  hands.    Come, 

and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth 

or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship, 

earth  and  air. 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circum- 
scribe thy  prayer  I 


BYRON, 


103 


The  sky  is  changed  ?  —  and  such  a 

change!    O  night, 
And  storin,   and  darkness,  ye  are 

wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is 

the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !  Far  along 
From  peak  to  peak,   the  rattling 

crags  among, 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!    Not  from 

one  lone  cloud, 
But     eveiy    mountain    now   hath 

found  a  tongue, 
And    Jura  answers,   through  her 

misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to 

her  aloud ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night:  —  Most 
glorious  night! 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber!  let 
me  be 

A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  de- 
light, — 

A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of 
thee! 

How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phos- 
phoric sea. 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to 
the  earth ! 

And  now  again  'tis  black,  —  and 
now,  the  glee 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its 
mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young 
eartiiquake's  birth. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake, 

lightnings!  ye! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thim- 

der,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt,  and  feeling, 

well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watch- 
ful ;  the  far  roll 
Of    your  departing  voices,   is  the 

knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  I 

rest.  ^oal  ? 

But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests,  is  the 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  hmnan 

breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles, 

some  hisli  nest! 


Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 

That  which  is  most  within  me-  — 
could  I  wreak 

My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and 
thus  throw 

Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feel- 
ings, strong  or  weak, 

All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and 
all  I  seek, 

Bear,  know,  foel,  and  yet  breathe  — 
into  one  word. 

And  that   one  word    were    light- 
ning, I  would  speak; 

But  as  it  is  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With    a    most    voiceless     thought 
sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 


[From  Childe  Harold.] 
BYRONS  REMARKABLE  PROPHECY. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  'tis  not 

that  now 
I  shrink  from  what  is  suffered :  let 

him  speak 
Wlio  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my 

brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave 

it  weak ; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words 

disperse, 
Though  i  be  ashes;  a  far  hour  shall 

wreak  [verse. 

The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  moun- 
tain of  my  curse! 

That  curse  shall  be  Forgiveness. — 

Have  I  not  — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth!  behold 

it,  Heaven!  — 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my 

lot? 
Have  I  not  suffered  things  to  be  for- 
given ? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  seared,  my 

heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapped,  name  blighted.  Life's 

life  lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 
Because  not  altogetlier  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom 

I  survey. 


104 


BYROK 


From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 

Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things 
could  do  ? 

From  tiie  loud  roar  of  foaming  cal- 
umny 

To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry 
few, 

And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile 
crew, 

The  Janus  glance  of  whose  signifi- 
cant eye, 

Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would 
seem  true. 

And  without  utterance,  save  the 
shrug  or  sigh. 

Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speech- 
less obloquy. 

But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived 
in  vain  : 

My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood 
its  fire, 

And  my  frame  perish  even  in  con- 
quering pain ; 

But  there  is  that  within  me  that  shall 
tire 

Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when 
I  expire. 

Something  unearthly,  which  they 
deem  not  of 

Like  the  remembered  tone  of  a  mute 
lyre, 

Shall  on  their  softened  spirits  sink, 
and  move 

In  hearts  all  rocky  no\y  the  late  re- 
morse of  love. 


[From  Childe  llarohJ.] 
ONE  PRESENCE  WANTFNG. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding 

Rhine, 
.Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the 

vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with    blossomed 

trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and 

wine. 


And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls   along  them 

shine. 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  I  sliould 

see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep-blue 
eyes. 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls 
of  gray 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  low- 
ers. 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay. 

Look  o'-er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers ; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of 
Ehine,  — 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me ; 
Though  long  before  thy  hand  they 

touch, 
1  know  that   they    must    withered 

be. 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such  : 
For  I  have  cherislied  them  as  dear 
Because  they   yet  may  meet  thine 

eye, 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine   even 

here, 
When  thou  behold' st  them  drooping 

nigh, 
And  knowest  them  gathered  by  the 

Rhine, 
And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine. 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows. 
The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground. 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round : 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might 

bound 
Through    life    to    dwell    delighted 

here ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could   thy  dear    eyes   in   following 

mine 
Still  sweeten   more   these  banks  <?f 

Rhine! 


BYRON. 


105 


IFrom  Childe  Harold.] 
GREECE. 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of 
woe, 

Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men ! 
art  thou! 

Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of 
snow ; 

Proclaim  thee  nature's  varied  fa- 
vorite now ; 

Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  sur- 
face bow, 

Commingling    slowly  with  heroic 
earth, 

Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic 
plough : 

So  perish    monuments  of    mortal 
birth, 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-re- 
corded worth; 


Save  where  some  solitary  column 
mourns 

Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the 
cave ; 

Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine 
adorns 

Colonna's  cliff,  and  gleams  along 
the  wave ; 

Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half -for- 
gotten grave, 

Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmo- 
lested grass 

Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave. 

Where  strangers  only,  not  regard- 
less pass, 
Lingering  like  rae,  perchance,  to  gaze, 
and  sigh  *'  Alas!  " 


Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags 

as  wild : 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant 

are  thy  fields. 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva 

smiled, 
And  still  his  honeyed  wealth  Hy- 

mettus  yields ; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant 

fortress  builds. 
The    freeborn    wanderer    of    the 

mountain  air; 


Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer 

gilds. 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles 

glare 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature 

still  is  fair. 

Where'er   we   tread  'tis  haunted, 

holy  ground ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar 

mould, 
But    one    vast    realm    of    wonder 

spreads  around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly 

told,  Ibehold 

Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have 

dwelt  upon: 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening 

glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  crushed  thy 

temples  gone : 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares 

gray  Marathon. 


IFrom  Childe  Harold.'] 

APOSTROPHE   TO  ADA,    THE 
POETS  DAUGHTER. 

My  daughter !  with  thy  name  this 

song  begun  — 
My  daughter !  with  thy  name  thus 

much  shall  end  — 
I  see  thee  not,  —  I  hear  thee  not,  — 

but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapped  in  thee ;  thou 

art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years 

extend ; 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  shouldst 

behold. 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  vis- 
ions blend. 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,  —  when 

mine  is  cold, 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy 

father's  mould. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  development,  — 

to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joys,  —  to  sit 

and  see 


106 


BYRON. 


Almost  thy  very  growth,  — to  view 
thee  catch 

Knowledge  of   objects,  —  wonders 
yet  to  thee ! 

To  iiold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle 
knee. 

And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  par- 
ent's kiss, — 

This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  re- 
served for  me; 

Yet  this  was  in  my  nature,  —  as  it 
is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  some- 
thing like  to  this. 


Yet,    though  dull    hate,  as    duty 

should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me; 

though  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell 

still  fraught 
With  desolation,  —  and  a  broken 

claim: 
Though  the  grave  closed  between 

us,  'twere  the  same. 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me; 

though  to  drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being  were 

an  aim, 
And  an  attainment,  —  all  would  be 

in  vain, — 
Still  thou  wouldst  love  me,  still  that 

more  than  life  retain. 


The  child  of  love,  —  though  born 

in  bitterness, 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.     Of 

thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements,  —  and 

thine  no  less. 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee,  —  but 

thy  fire 
Shall   be  more  tempered,  and  thy 

hope  far  higher.  . 
Sweet  be    thy    cradled    slumbers! 

O'er  the  sea. 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I 

now  respire. 
Fain  would  I  waft  such  blessing 

upon  thee. 
As,  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  mightst 

have  been  to  me ! 


\_From  Childe  Harold.} 
WATERLOO. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by 
night, 

And  Belgium's  capital  had  gath- 
ered then 

Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and 
bright 

The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women 
and  brave  men; 

A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily; 
and  when 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous 
swell. 

Soft  eyes  looked  love,  to  eyes  which 
spake  again, 

And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage- 
bell; 
But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes 
like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No: 'twas 
but  the  wind. 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony 
street ; 

On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  un- 
contined; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and 
Pleasure  meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with 
flying  feet  — 

But,  hark !  —  that  heavy  sound 
breaks  in  once  more, 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  v/ould  re- 
peat; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than 
before ! 
Arm!    arm!    it  is  —  it  is — the  can- 
non's opening  roar! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot 
haste:  the  steed, 

The  mustering  squadron,  and  the 
clattering  car, 

Went  pouring  forward  with  impet- 
uous speed. 

And  sAviftly  forming  in  the  ranks 
of  war; 

And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal 
afar; 

And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming 
drum 


BYRON. 


107 


Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morn- 
ing star; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with 
terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering  with  white  lips  *'  The 
foe!  They  come!  they  come!" 


And  Ardennes  waves  above  them 

her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as 

they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er 

grieves. 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  — alas ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the 

grass 
Which    now    beneath    them,    but 

above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery 

mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  witli  high  hope,  shall 

moulder  cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty 

life. 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudly 

gay. 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal 

sound  of  strife. 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, 

—  the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it, 

which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with 

other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover, 

heaped  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe,  —  in 

one  red  burial  blent! 


ON  COMPLETING   MY   THIRTY- 
SIXTH    YEAR. 

[His  last  t'erses.  ] 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  un- 
moved. 
Since  others  it  has  cease^  to  move: 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Stilllet  me  love: 


My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 
The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are 
gone ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share. 
But  wear  the  chain. 


But  'tis  not  thus  —  and  'tis  not  here  — 
Such    thoughts  should  shake  my 
soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier. 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The    sword,    the    banner    and     the 
field. 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield. 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake!  (not  Greece  —  she  is  awake! ) 
Awake,  my  spirit!    Think  through 
v^hom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood!  —  unto  thee 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If   thou   regrett'st   thy   youth,   why 
Jive  ? 
The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here:  —  up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek    out  —  less  often  sought    than 
found  — 
A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy 
ground. 
And  take  thy  rest. 


108 


CAMPBELL. 


Thomas   Campbell. 


HALLOWED    GROUND. 

What's    hallowed     ground  ?      Has 

earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod, 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That's    hallowed    ground  —  where, 

mourned,  and  missed. 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed :  — 
But  Where's  their  memory's  mansion? 
Is't 
Yon  churchyard's  bowers! 
No!  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 
A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where    mated     hearts    are     mutual 
bound:  [wound. 

The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  Heaven ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were 

told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould; 

And  will  not  cool. 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes 

sleep  ? 
'Tis    not   the  sculptured    piles  you 

heap ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom ; 
Or  genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 
Their  coral  tomb: 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 
Whose    sword  or   voice  has  served 

mankind  — 
And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ?  — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind. 

Is  not  to  die. 


Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws :  — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ?  — 

A  noble  cause ! 

Give  that  I  and  welcome  War  to  brace 
Her  drums!  and  rend  Heaven's^ reek- 
ing space ! 
The  colors  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer,  — 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on 
the  chase,  — 
Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men 

kneel 
To  Heaven!  —  but  Heaven    rebukes 

my  zeal! 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 
To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace!  Love!  the  cherubim  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's 

shrine. 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples 
shine. 
Where  they  are  not ; 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 
Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust. 
And    pompous   rights  in  domes  au- 
gust ? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's 
rust 
Belie  the  vaunt. 
That  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 
With  chime  or  chant. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee, 

man ! 
The     temples  —  creeds    themselves, 

grow  wan ! 
But  there's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban— 
Its  space  is  Heaven ! 


CAMPBELL. 


109 


Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where    trancing    the    rapt    spirit's 

feeling, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard    their 
pealing 
By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars!  are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death  your  worlds  ob- 
scure ? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us 
sure 
Of  heavenly  love ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time; 
That    man's    regenerate    sojil    from 
crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

What's  hallowed  ground  ?   'Tis  what 

gives  birth 
To     sacred    thoughts    in     souls    of 

worth !  — 
Peace!     Independence!     Truth!    go 

forth 
Earth's  compass  round; 
And  your  higli  priesthood  shall  make 

earth 
All  hallowed  ground. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 

Ai.L    worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in 
gloom, 

The  sun  himself  must  die. 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality ! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That    gave    my   spirit    strength    to 
sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould, 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime! 


The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare. 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan. 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man! 
Some    had  expired   in   flight,  —  the 

brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands; 

In  plague  and  famine  some ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread. 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb ! 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  higli. 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the 
wood 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by. 
Saying,   "  We   are   twins  in  death, 

proud  Sun, 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go; 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

"What  though  beneath  thee  man  put 
forth 
His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and 
earth. 
The  vassals  of  the  will  ?  — 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway. 
Thou  dim  discrowned  king  of  day; 

For  all  these  trophied  arts 
And    triumphs    that    beneath    thee 

sprang. 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 
Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

*'  Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again. 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword. 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

"  Even  I  am  wearj-  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 


110 


CAMPBELL. 


"  My  lips  that  speak   thy   dirge  of 

death  — 
Their    rounded    gasp    and    gurgUng 
hreath 
To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my 

pall,  — 
The  majesty  of  darkness  shall 
Receive  my  parting  ghost ! 

*'  This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark : 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark ! 
No!  it  shall  live  again  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  captivity. 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  Victory,  — 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death ! 

*'  Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  mo  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste  — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw' St  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  Immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God!" 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 
A   NAVAL  ODE. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas; 

W^hose    flag  has  braved  a  thousand 

years, 
The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe ! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep. 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow : 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave ; 


Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks. 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her    march  is  o'er    the    mountain- 

waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 
She  quells  the  floods  below — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore. 
When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  niglit  depart, 

And  tlie  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  tlien,  ye  ocean  warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  tlie  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


HOW  DELICIOUS  IS   THE    WIN- 
NING. 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 
Of  a  kiss  at  love's  beginning, 
When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there's  no  untying! 

Yet,  remember,  'midst  your  wooing, 
Love  has  bliss,  but  love  lias  ruing; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle, 
Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  lie  comes,  and  Love  lie  tarries, 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries ; 
Longest  stays,  when  sorest  chidden; 
Laughs  and  flies,  when  pressed  and 
bidden. 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly, 
Bind  its  odor  to  the  lily, 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver. 
Then  bind  Love  to  last  for  ever ! 


CAMPBELL. 


Ill 


Love's  a  fire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel ; 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and 

captured, 
Only  free,  he  soars  enraptured. 

Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging, 
Or  the  ring-dove's  neck  from  chang- 
ing? 
No!  nor  fettered  Love  from  dying 
In  the  knot  there's  no  untying. 


LORD   ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A     CHIEFTAIN,    to    the    Highlands 
bound, 

Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 
And  ril  give  thee  a  silver  pound 

To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Loch- 
gyle, 

This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?  " 
"O,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle. 

And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter, 

*'  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together. 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen. 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

*'  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ?  " 

Outspoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready, — 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright ; 
But  for  your  winsome  lady : 

"  And  by  my  word !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry ; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 


But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind. 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

.**  O haste  thee,  haste!"  the  lady  cries, 
*'  Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father."  — 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her. 
When,   oh!    too  strong   for   human 
hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 
Of  waters  fast  prevailing; 

Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore; 
His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For    sore  dismayed,  through  storm 
and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover; 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Comeback!  comeback!"  he  cried 
in  grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water: 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter !  —  O  my  daughter ! ' ' 

'Twas   vain:  the  loud  waves  lashsd 
the  shore. 

Return  or  aid  preventing:  — 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


FIELD  FLOWERS. 

Ye  field  flowers !  the  gardens  eclipse 

you,  'tis  true, 
Yet,  wildings  of  Nature,  I  dote  upon 

you, 
For  ye  waft  me  to  siunmors  of  old. 
When  the  earth  teemed  around  me 

with  fairy  delight. 
And    when    daisies   and  buttercups 

gladdened  my  sight, 
Like  treasures  of  silver  and  gold. 


112 


CAMPBELL. 


1  love  you  for  lulling  me  back  into 

dreams 
Of  the  blue  Highland  mountains  and 

echoing  streams, 
And  of  birchen  glades  breathing 

their  balm, 
While  the  deer  was  seen  glancing  in 

sunshine  remote, 
And  the  deep  mellow  crush  of  the 

wood-pigeon's  note 
Made    music    that    sweetened  the 

calm. 

Not  a  pastoral  song  has  a  pleasanter 

tune 
Than    ye  speak  to  my  heart,  little 

wildings  of  June: 
Of  old  ruinous  castles  ye  tell. 
Where  1  thought  it  delightful  your 

beauties  to  find, 
When    the    magic  of    Nature    first 

breathed  on  my  mind, 
And  your  blossoms  were  part  of  her 

spell. 

Even  now  what  affections  the  violet 
awakes ; 

What  loved  little  islands,  twice  seen 
in  their  lakes. 
Can  the  wild  water-lily  restore; 

What  landscapes  1  read  in  the  prim- 
rose's looks. 

And  what  pictures  of  pebbled  and 
minnowy  brooks, 
In  the  vetches  that  tangled  their 
shore. 

Earth's  cultureless  buds,  to  my  heart 

ye  were  dear, 
Ere  the  fever  of  passion,  or  ague  of  fear 
Had  scathed  my  existence's  bloom; 
Once  I  welcome  you  more,  in  life's 

passionless  stage. 
With  the  visions  of  youth  to  revisit 
my  age,  [tomb. 

And  I  wish  you  to  grow  on  my 


HOHENLINDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser  rolling  rapidly. 


But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed. 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed. 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder 

riven. 
Then    rushed    the    steed    to   battle 

driven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow. 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On !  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Mmiich !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  wher^many  meet ! 
The    snow   shall   be   their  winding- 
sheet  ! 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


EXILE   OF  ERIN. 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor 

exile  of  Erin, 
The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy 

and  chill; 
For  his  country  he  sighed,   when  at 

twilight  repairing 
To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten 

hill. 
But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's 

sad  devotion. 
For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of 

the  ocean, 


CAMPBELL. 


113 


Where  once  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful 
emotion, 
He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin 
go  bragh! 

"Sad  is  my  fate!"  said  the  heart- 
broken stranger; 

"  The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert 
can  flee, 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine 
and  danger, 
A  home  and  a  country  remain  not 
to  me. 

Never  again,  in  the  green  sunny  bow- 
ers. 

Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I 
spend  the  sweet  hours, 

Or  cover   my   harp  with  the   wild- 
woven  flowers, 
And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin 
go  bragh ! 

"Erin,  my  comitry!  though  sad  and 

forsaken. 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten 

shore ; 
But,   alas!  in  a  far  foreign  land   I 

awaken, 
And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can 

meet  me  no  more !  [me 

O  cruel  fate !  wilt  thou  never  replace 
In  a  mansion  of  peace  —  where  no 

perils  can  chase  me  ? 
Never  again  shall  my  brothers  em- 
brace me  ? 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  lived  to 

deplore ! 

"Where  is  my  cabin-door,   fast  by 

the  wild  wood  ? 
Sisters  and  sire,  did  ye  weep  for  its 

fall? 
Whore  is  the  mother  that  looked  on 

my  childhood  ? 
And   where    is  the  bosom-friend, 

dearer  than  all  ? 
Oh,  my  sad  heart!  long  abandoned 

by  pleasure. 
Why    did    it  dote  on  a  fast-fading 

treasure  ? 
Tears,  like  the  rain  drop,  may  fall 

without  measure. 
But  rapture  and  beauty  they  can 

not  recall. 


"  Yet  all   its  sad  recollections  sup- 
pressing. 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can 

draw  : 
Erin!  an  exile  bequeathes  thee  this 

blessing! 
Land  of  my  forefathers  !    Erin  go 

bragh ! 
Buried  and  cold  when  my  heart  stills 

her  motion, 
Green  be  thy  fields,  —  sweetest  isle  of 

the  ocean ! 
And    thy    harp-striking    bards    sing 

aloud  with  devotion, — 
Erin  mavournin — Erin  go  bragh ! "  * 


TO   THE  RAINBOW. 

Triumphal  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part ! 

I  ask  not  proud  Philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art  — 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  Optics  teach,  unfold 
Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 

As  when  I  dreamed  of  gems  and  gold 
Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

When  Science  from  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws, 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws ! 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams. 
But  words  of  the  Most  High, 

Have    told    why    first    thy    robe    of 
beams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 

When  o'er  the  green,  undeluged  earth 
Heaven's    covenant     thou     didst 
shine, 
How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers 
forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  I 

♦  Ireland  my  darling—  Ireland  forever. 


114 


CAMPBELL. 


And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 
O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 

Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 
To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 
The  first-made  anthem  rang, 

On  earth  delivered  from  the  deep. 
And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 
Unraptured  greet  thy  beam : 

Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 
Be  still  the  prophet's  theme! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 
The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 

When    glittering    in    the    freshened 
fields 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
O'er  mountain,  tower  and  town, 

Or  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fathoms  down ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 
As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page. 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span, 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 


THE  RIVER   OF  LIFE. 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 
Our  life's  succeeding  stages: 

A  day  to  childhood  seems  a  year. 
And  years  like  passing  ages. 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth. 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders. 
Steals  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 

Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But  as  the  careworn  cheek  grows  wan, 
And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 

Ye  stars,  that  measure  life  to  man. 
Why  seem  your  courses  quicker  ? 


When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and 
breath, 

And  life  itself  is  vapid, 
Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls  of  Death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid  ? 

It  may  be  strange  —  yet  who  would 

change 
Time's  course  to  slower  speeding. 
When  one  by  one  our  friends  have 

gone 
And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding  ? 

Heaven    gives    our  years  of  fading 
strength 
Indenmifying  fleetness; 
And    those    of     youth,    a    seeming 
length. 
Proportioned  to  their  sweetness. 


BATTLE   OF  THE  BALTIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renowni, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 
And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly 

shone ; 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 
In  a  bold  detennined  hand; 
And  the  prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line: 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 
To  anticipate  the  scene ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 
"Hearts  of  oak!  "  our  captain  cried, 

when  each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 


CAMPBELL. 


115 


Again!  again!  again! 

Anil  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back : 

'I'heir  shots  along  the  deep  slowly 

boom; 
Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 
As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail; 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 
Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave; 

"  Ye  are  brothers!  ye  are  men! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save :  — 

80   peace   instead    of  death    let    us 

bring; 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet. 
With  the  crew,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  king." 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief. 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 
As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from 

the  day ; 
AVliile  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 
"Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze. 
Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light! 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar. 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 
Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 
On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died 
With  the  gallant,  good  Kiou: 
Soft  sigh  "the  winds  of  heaven  o'er 

their  grave! 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls. 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles. 
Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave ! 


SONG. 

Earl  March  looked  on  his  dying 
child, 
And  smit  with  grief  to  view  her  — 
"  The  youth,"  he  cried,  "  whom  1  ex- 
iled. 
Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her." 

She's  at  the  window  many  an  hour 

His  coming  to  discover: 
And  he  looks  up  to  Ellen's  bower, 

And  she  looks  on  her  lover  — 

But  ah !  so  pale  he  knew  her  not. 
Though    her    smile    on    him  was 
dwelling, 

"  And  am  1  then  forgot  —  forgot  ?  " 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs. 
Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes ; 

Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those 
eyes 
To  lift  their  silken  lashes. 


TRIBUTE   TO   VICTORIA. 

Victoria's  sceptre  o'er  the  deep 
Has  touched,  and  broken  slavery's 
chain ; 

Yet,  strange  magician!  she  enslaves 
Our  hearts  within  her  own  domain. 

Her  spirit  is  devout,  and  bums 
With  thoughts  averse  to  bigotrj' ; 

Yet  she,  herself  the  idol,  turns 
Our  thoughts  into  idolatry. 


{From  the  Pleasures  of  Hope.] 

THE  DISTANT  IN  NATURE  AND 
EXPERIENCE. 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethe- 
real bow 

Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering 
hills  below, 

Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  mus- 
ing eye, 

Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles 
with  the  sky  ? 


116 


CAMPBELL. 


Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint 
appear 

More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape 
smiling  near  ?  — 

'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to 
the  view, 

And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure 
hue. 

Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  sur- 
vey 

The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeas- 
ured way; 

Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discovered 
scene 

More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past 
hath  been, 

And  every  form,  that  Fancy  can  re- 
pair 

From  dark  oblivion,  grows  divinely 
there 

Auspicious  Hope  !  in  thy  sweet  gar- 
den grow 

Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for 
every  woe; 

Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's 
languid  hour, 

The  w^ayworn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  sum- 
mer bower ; 

There,  as  the  wild  bee  murmurs  on 
the  wing, 

What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid 
spirits  bring! 

What  viewless  forms  th'  ^olian 
organ  play. 

And  sweep  the  furrowed  lines  of 
anxious  thought  away. 


[From  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.] 
HOPE  IJV  ADVERSITY. 

Bright  as  the  pillar  rose  at  Heaven's 
command, 

When  Israel  marched  along  the  des- 
ert land, 

Blazed  through  the  night  on  lonely 
wilds  afar, 

And  told  the  path,  — a  never-setting 
star  : 

So,  heavenly  Genius,  in  thy  course 
divine, 

Hope  is  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever 
thine. 


[From  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.] 
DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS. 

Let  winter  come!  let  polar  spirits 
sweep 

The  darkening  world,  and  tempest- 
troubled  deep! 

Though  boundless  snows  the  with- 
ered heath  deform. 

And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders 
through  the  storm. 

Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  re- 
pay, 

With  mental  light,  the  melancholy 
day! 

And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon 
is  o'er. 

The  ice-chained  waters  slumbering 
on  the  shore. 

How  bright  the  fagots  in  his  little  hall 

Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  his 
pictured  wall ! 

How  blest  he  names,  in  Love's  famil- 
iar tone. 

The  kind,  fair  friend,  by  nature 
marked  his  own ; 

And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his 
mind, 

Yiews  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left 
behind, 

Since  when  her  empire  o'er  his  heart 
began ! 

Since  first  he  called  her  his  before  the 
holy  man ! 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 
And    light  the  wintry    paradise    of 

home ; 
And  let  the  half-uncurtained  window 

hail 
Some  way-worn  man  benighted  in  the 

vale! 
Now,  while  the  moaning  night-wind 

rages  high. 
As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the 

troubled  sky, 
While  fiery  hosts  in  Heaven's  wide 

circle  play, 
And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  milky- 
way, 
Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and 

the  shower. 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the 

solemn  hour  — 


CAMPBELL. 


117 


With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit 

beguile, 
A  generous    tear    of  anguish,   or  a 

smile. 


[From  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.] 
APOSTROPHE    TO  HOPE. 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last 
embers  burn. 

When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust 
return ! 

Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the 
awful  hour! 

Oh!  then,  thy  kingdom  comes,  im- 
mortal Power! 

What  though  each  spark  of  earth- 
born  rapture  fly 

The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and 
closing  eye! 

Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands 
convey 

The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal 
day  — 

Then,  then  the  triumph  and  the 
trance  begin. 

And  all  the  phoenix  spirit  bums 
within ! 


[From  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.] 

AGAINST  SKEPTICAL   PHILOSO- 
PHY. 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye 

proclaim, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demigods  of 

Fame? 
Is    this    your    triumph  —  this    your 

proud  applause, 
Children  of  Truth,  and  champion  of 

her  cause  ? 
For  this  hath  Science   searched  on 

weary  wing, 
By  shore  and  sea  —  each  mute  and 

living  thing! 
Launched   with   Iberia's  pilot  from 

the  steep. 
To  worlds  unknown  and  isles  beyond 

the  deep  ? 


Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot 

driven, 
And  wheeled  in  triumph  through  the 

signs  of  Heaven. 
Oh !  star-eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wan- 
dered there, 
To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  des- 
pair ? 
Then  bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow 

to  suit, 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-distilling 

fruit! 
Ah  me  !   the   laurelled  wreath  that 

Murder  rears. 
Blood-nursed,   and   watered    by  the 

widow's  tears, 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so 

dread. 
As  waves  the  night-shade  round  the 

skeptic  head. 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's 

chain  ? 
I  smile    on    death,   if    Heavenward 

Hope  remain : 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's 

strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life, 
If  Chance  awakened,  inexorable  power 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an 

hour ; 
Doomed  o'er  the  world's  precarious 

scene  to  sweep. 
Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the 

deep, 
To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting 

smile, 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little 

while; 
Then  melt,  ye  elements,  that  formed 

in  vain 
This    troubled    pulse  and  visionary 

brain! 
Fade,  ye  wild  flowers,  memorials  of 

my  doom. 
And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to 

the  tomb ! 
Truth,  ever  lovely, — since  the  world 

began. 
The  foe  of  tyrants,  and  the  friend  of 

man,  — 
How  can  thy  words  from  balmy  slum- 
ber start 
Keposing    Virtue    pillowed    on    the 

heart! 


118 


CAREW—  CARLYLE. 


Yet,  if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thunder 
rolled, 

And  that  were  true  which  Nature 
never  told. 

Let  Wisdom  smile  not  on  her  con- 
quered field 

No  rapture  dawns,  no  treasure  is  re- 
vealed ! 


Oh!    let  her  read,   nor  loudly,   nor 

elate, 
The  doom  that  bars  us  from  a  bettei 

fate ; 
But,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's 

sin. 
Weep  to  record,  and  blush  to  give 

it  in! 


Thomas  Carew. 


DISDAIN  RETURNED. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 
Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 

Or  from  starlike  eyes  doth  seek 
Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires ; 

As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 

So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 


But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires. 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires :  — 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 


No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win, 
My  resolved  heart  to  return ; 

I  have  searched  the  soul  within 
And  find  nought  but    pride   and 
scorn ; 

I  have  learned  thy  arts,  and  now 

Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou ! 


ASK  ME  NO  MORE. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose. 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep, 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day. 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past, 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night, 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest. 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies. 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 


Thomas   Carlyle. 


TO-DA  Y. 

So  here  hath  been  dawning  another 

blue  day ! 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it  slip  useless 

away  ? 

Out  of  eternity  this  new  day  was  born ; 
Into  eternity  at  night   will  return. 


Behold  it  aforetime,  no  eye  ever  did  ,• 
So  soon  it  forever  from  all  eyes  is 
hid. 

Here  hath    been  dawning    another 

blue  day ; 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it  slip  useless 

away. 


CARY. 


119 


CUI  BONO? 

What  is  hope  ?  A  smiling  rainbow 
Children  follow  through  the  net  : 

'Tis  not  here  —  still  yonJer,  yonder; 
Never  urchin  found  it  yet. 

What  is  life  ?    A  thawing  iceboard 
On  a  sea  with  sunny  shore  ; 


Gay  we  sail ;  it  melts  beneath  us  ; 
We  are  sunk,  and  seen  no  more. 

What  is  man?    A  foolish  baby; 

Vainly    strives,    and    fights,    and 
frets : 
Demanding  all,  deserving  nothing, 

One  small  grave  is  all  he  gets. 


Alice  Gary. 


LIFE. 

Solitude  !     Life  is  inviolate  soli- 
tude; 
Never  was  truth  so  apart  from  the 

dreaming 
As  lieth  the  selfhood  inside  of  the 
seeming, 
Guarded  with  triple  shield  out  of  all 
quest, 
So  that  the  sisterhood  nearest  and 

sweetest. 
So  that  the  brotherhood  kindest, 
completest, 
Is  but  an   exchanging  of  signals  at 
best. 

Desolate  !     Life  is   so    dreary    and 
desolate. 
AVomen   and    men   in  the   crowd 

meet  and  mingle. 
Yet  with  itself  every  soul  standeth 
single, 
Deep  out  of  sympathy  moaning  its 
moan ; 
Holding  and  having  its  brief  ex- 
ultation ; 
Making  its  lonesome  and  low  la- 
mentation ; 
Fighting  its  terrible  conflicts  alone. 

Separate  !    Life  is  so  sad  and  so  sep- 
arate. 
Under  love's  ceiling  with  roses  for 

lining, 
Heart  mates  with  heart  in  a  tender 
entwining, 
Vet  never  the  sweet  cup  of  love  fill- 
eth  full. 


Eye  looks  in  eye  with  a  question- 
ing wonder, 

Why  are  we  thus  in  our  meeting 
asunder  ? 
Why  are  our  pulses  so  slow  and  so 
dull? 

Fruitless,  fruitionless  !    Life  is  fru- 
itionless; 
Never  the  heaped-up  and  generous 

measure ; 
Never  the  substance  of  satisfied 
pleasure ; 
Never   the    moment    with    rapture 
elate ; 
But  draining  the  chalice,  we  long 

for  the  chalice. 
And  live  as  an  alien  inside  of  our 
palace, 
Bereft  of  our  title  and  deeds  of  estate. 

Pitiful  !    Life  is  so  poor  and  so  piti- 
ful. 
Cometh  the  cloud  on  the  goldenest 

weather ; 
Briefly  the  man  and  his  youth  stay 
together. 
Falleth  the  frost  ere  the  harvest  is  in. 
And  conscience  descends  from  the 

open  aggression 
To  timid  and  troubled  and  tearful 
concession. 
And  downward  and  down  into  parley 
with  sin. 

Purposeless  !   Life  is  so  wayward  and 
purposeless. 
Always   before    us   the   object    is 
shifting. 


120 


CABY. 


Always  the  means  and  the  method 
are  drifting, 
We  rue  what  is  done  — what  is  un- 
done deplore; 

More  striving  for  high  things  than 
things  that  are  holy. 

And  so  we  go  down  to  the  valley 
so  lowly, 
Wherein  there  is  work,  and  device 
never  more. 

Vanity,  vanity !  All  would  be  vanity, 
Whether  in  seeking  or  getting  our 

pleasures, 
Whether  in  spending  or  hoarding 
our  treasures. 
Whether   in   indolence,  whether    in 
strife  — 
Whether  in  feasting  and  whether 

in  fasting. 
But  for  our  faith  in  the  Love  ever- 
lasting — 
But  for  the  Life  that  is  better  than 
life. 


THE  FERR  Y  OF  GALEA  WA  Y. 

In  the  stormy  waters  of  Gall  away 
My  boat  had  been  idle  the  livelong 

day, 
Tossing  and  tumbling  to  and  fro. 
For  the  wind  was  high  and  the  tide 

was  low. 

The  tide  was  low  and  the  wind  was 

high, 
And  we  were  heavy,  my  heart  and  I, 
For  not  a  traveller  all  the  day 
Had  crossed  the  ferry  of  Gallaway. 

At  set  o'  th'  sun,  the  clouds  out- 
spread 

Like  wings  of  darkness  overhead. 

When,  out  o'  th'  west,  my  eyes  took 
heed 

Of  a  lady,  riding  at  full  speed. 

The  hoof-strokes  struck  on  the  flinty 

hill 
Like  silver  ringing  on  silver,  till 
I  saw  the  veil  in  her  fair  hand  float, 
And  flutter  a  signal  for  my  boat. 


The  waves  ran  backward  as  if  aware 
Of  a  presence  more  than  mortal  fair, 
And  my  little  craft  leaned  down  and 

lay 
With  her  side  to  th'  sands  o'  th'  Gal- 
laway. 

"  Haste,  good  boatman!  haste!  "  she 

cried, 
"  And  row  me  over  the  other  side!  " 
And  she  stripped  from  her  finger  the 

shining  ring. 
And  gave  it  me  for  the  ferrying. 

"Woe's  me!  my  Lady,  I  may  not  go, 
For  the  wind  is  high  and  th'  tide  is 

low. 
And  rocks,  like  dragons,  lie  in  the 

w  ave,  — 
Slip  back  on  your  finger  the  ring  you 

gave!  " 

"  Nay,  nay!  for  the  rocks  will  be 

melted  down. 
And  the  waters,  they  never  will  let 

me  drown. 
And  the  wind  a  pilot  will  prove  to 

thee. 
For  my   dying  lover,  he  waits  for 

me!" 

Then  bridle-ribbon  and  silver  spur 
She  put  in  my  hand,  but  1  answered 

her: 
"  The  wind   is  high  and  the  tide  is 

low, — 
I  must  not,  dare  not,  and  will  not  go ! " 

Her  face  grew  deadly  white  with  pain. 

And  she  took  her  champing  steed  by 
th'  mane. 

And  bent  his  neck  to  th'  ribbon  and 
spur 

That  lay  in  my  hand,  —  but  I  an- 
swered her: 

"  Though    you    should    proffer   me 

twice  and  thrice 
Of  ring  and  ribbon  and    steed   the 

price,  — 
The  leave  of  kissing  your  lily-like 

hand! 
I  never  could  row  you  safe  to  th' 

land." 


CABY. 


121 


"  Then  God  have  mercy! "  she  faint- 
ly cried, 

"  For  my  lover  is  dying  the  other 
side! 

O  cruel,  O  cruellest  Gallaway, 

Be  parted,  and  make  me  a  path,  I 
pray!" 

.Of  a  sudden,  the  sun  shone  large  and 

bright 
As  if  he  were  staying  away  the  night; 
And  the  rain  on  the  river  fell  as 

sweet 
As  the  pitying  tread  of  an  angel's 

feet. 

And  spanning  the  water  from  edge 

to  edge  . 
A  rainbow  stretched  like  a  golden 

bridge, 
And  I  put  the  rein  In  her  hand  so 

fair, 
And  she  sat  in  her  saddle  th'  queen 

o'  th'  air. 

And  over  the  river,  from  edge  to 
edge, 

She  rode  on  the  shifting  and  shim- 
mering bridge, 

And  landing  safe  on  the  farther 
side, — 

*' Love  is  thy  conqueror,  Death!" 
she  cried. 


cou^rsEL. 

Seek  not  to  walk  by  boiTowed  light. 
But  keep  unto  thine  own : 

Do  what  thou  doest  with  thy  might 
And  trust  thyself  alone! 

Work  for  some  good,  nor  idly  lie 

Within  the  human  hive; 
And  though  the  outward  man  should 
die, 

Keep  thou  the  heart  alive ! 

Strive  not  to  banish  pain  and  doubt, 

In  pleasure's  noisy  din; 
The  peace  thou  seekest  for  without 

Is  onlv  foimd  within. 


If  fortune  disregard  thy  claim, 
By  worth,  her  slight  attest; 

Nor  blush  and  hang  the  head  for 
shame 
When  thou  hast  done  thy  best 

Disdain  neglect,  ignore  despair, 
On  loves  and  friendships  gone 

Plant  thou  thy  feet,  as  on  a  stair, 
And  mount  right  up  and  on! 


A  DREAM. 

I  DREAMED  I  had  a  plot  of  ground. 
Once  when  I  chanced  asleep  to 
drop. 
And  that  a  green  hedge  fenced  it 
round. 
Cloudy  with  roses  at  the  top. 

I  saw  a  hundred  mornings  rise, — 
So  far  a  little  dream  may  reach, — 

And  Spring  with  Summer  in  her  eyes 
Making  the  chief  est  charm  of  each. 

A  thousand  vines  were  climbing  o'er 
The  hedge,  I  thought,  but  as  I  tried 

To  pull  them  down,  for  evermore 
The  flowers  dropt  off  the  other  side ! 

Waking,  I  said,  "These  things  are 
signs 

Sent  to  instruct  us  that  'tis  ours 
Duly  to  keep  and  dress  our  vines, — 

Waiting  in  patience  for  the  flowers. 

"And  when  the  angel  feared  of  all 
Across    my    hearth     its    shadow 
spread. 

The  rose  that  climbed  my  garden  wall 
Has  bloomed  the  other  side,"  I  said. 


SPENT  AND  MISSPENT. 

Stay  yet  a  little  longer  in  the  sky, 

O  golden  color  of  the  evening  sun! 
Let  not  the  sweet  day  in  its  sweet- 
ness die, 
AVhile  my  day's  work  is  only  just 
begun. 


122 


CARV. 


Counting  the  happy  chances  strewn 
about 
Thick  as  the   leaves,   and   saying 
which  was  best, 
The  rosy  lights  of  morning  all  went 
out. 
And    it    was    burning  noon,   and 
time  to  rest. 


Then  leaning  low  upon  a  piece  of 
shade, 
Fringed    round   with    violets    and 
pansies  sweet, 
''My  heart  and  I,"  I  said,  "will  be 
delayed, 
And  plan  our  work  while  cools  the 
sultry  heat." 

Deep  in  the  hills,  and  out  of  silence 
vast, 
A  waterfall  played  up  his   silver 
tune; 
My  plans  lost  purpose,  fell  to  dreams 
at  last. 
And  held  me  late  into  the  after- 
noon. 


But  when  the  idle  pleasures  ceased 
to  please. 
And  I  awoke,  and  not  a  plan  was 
planned, 
Just  as  a  drowning  man  at  what  he 
sees 
Catches  for  life,  I  caught  the  thing 
at  hand. 


And  so  life's  little  work-day  hour  has 
all 
Been    spent   and   misspent  doing 
what  1  could, 
And  in  regrets  and  efforts  to  recall 
The  chance  of  having,  being,  what 
I  would. 


And  so  sometimes  I  cannot  choose 
but  cry, 
Seeing  my  late-sown  flowers  are 
har.lly  set; 
0  darkening  color  of  the  evening  sky. 
Spare  me    the  day  a  little  longer 
yet. 


LIFE'S  MYSTEUY. 

Life's  sadly  solemn  mystery, 
Hangs  o'er  me  like  a  weight; 

The  glorious  longing  to  be  free, 
The  gloomy  bars  of  fate. 

Alternately  the  good  and  ill. 
The  light  and  dark,  are  strung; 

Fountains  of  love  within  my  heart, 
And  hate  upon  my  tongue. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  unstable  ground, 
Above  my  head  the  skies; 

Immortal  longings  in  my  soul, 
And  death  before  my  eyes. 

No  purely  pure,  and  perfect  good, 
No  high,  unhindered  power; 

A  beauteous  promise  in  the  bud, 
And  mildew  on  the  flower. 

The  glad,   green  brightness  of    the 
spring; 

The  summer,  soft  and  warm ; 
The  faded  autumn's  fluttering  gold. 

The  whirlwind  and  the  storm. 

To  find  some  sure  interpreter 

My  spirit  vainly  tries; 
I  only  know  that  God  is  love, 

And  know  that  love  is  wise. 


NO  RING. 

What  is  it  that  doth  spoil  the  fair 
adorning 
With  which  her  body  she  would 
dignify, 
Wlien  from  her  bed  she  rises  in  the 
morning 
To  comb,  and  plait,  and  tie 
Her  hair  with  ribbons,  colored  like 
the  sky  ? 

What  is  it  that  her  pleasure  discom- 
poses 
When  she  would  sit  and  sing  the 
sun  away —  [roses. 

Making  her  see  dead  roses  in   red 

And  in  the  downfall  gray 
A    blight  that  seems  the  world  to 
overlay  ? 


CART. 


123 


What  is  it  makes  the  trembling  look 
of  trouble 
About  her  tender  mouth  and  eye- 
lids fair? 
Ah  me,  ah  me!  she  feels  her  heart 
beat  double, 
Without  the  mother's  prayer. 
And  her  wild  fears  are  more  than 
she  can  bear. 

To  the  poor  sightless  lark  new  pow- 
ers are  given, 
Not  only  with  a  golden  tongue  to 
sing. 
But  still  to  make  her  wavermg  way 
toward  heaven 
With  undiscerning  wing; 
But  what  to  her  doth  her  sick  sorrow 
bring  ? 

Her  days  she  turns,  and  yet  keeps 
overturning, 
And  her  flesh  shrinks  as  if  she  felt 
the  rod; 


For  'gainst  her  will  she  thinks  hard 

things  concerning 
The  everlasting  God, 
And  longs  to  be  insensate  like  the 

clod. 

Sweet  Heaven,  be  pitiful!  rain  down 

upon  her  [such ; 

The  saintly  charities  ordained  for 

She  was  so  poor  in  everything  but 

honor,  [much! 

And     she     loved     much  —  loved 

Would,  Lord,  she  had  thy  garment's 

hem  to  touch. 

Haply,  it  was  the  hungry  heart  with- 
in her. 
The  woman's  heart,  denied  its  nat- 
ural right, 
That  made  of  her  the  thing  which 
men  call  sinner. 
Even  in  her  own  despite; 
Lord,  that  her  judges  might  receive 
their  sight  I 


Phcebe  Gary. 


NEARER  HOME. 

OxE  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er; 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 
Than  I  ever  have  been  before ; 

Nearer  my  father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea ; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life. 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown ! 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  silent  unknown  stream. 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dread  abysm: 


Closer  Death  to  my  lips 
Presses  the  awful  chrism. 


Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink; 
If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 

Even  to-day  than  I  think; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death. 
That  her  feet  are  finnly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith  I 


DEAD  LOVE. 

We  are  face  to  face,  and  between  us 
here 
Is  the  love  we  thought  could  never 
die; 
Why  has  it  only  lived  a  year  ? 
Who  has  nmrdered  it  —  you  or  I  ? 


124 


CABY. 


No  matter  who  —  the  deed  was  done 
By  one  or  both,  and  there  it  Hes; 

The  smile  from  the  lip  forever  gone, 
And  darkness  over  the  beautiful 

eyes. 

Our  love  is  dead,  and  our  hope  is 
wrecked ; 
So  what  does  it  profit  to  talk  and 
rave. 
Whether  it  perished  by  my  neglect, 
Or  whether  your  cruelty  dug  its 
grave ! 

Why  should  you  say  that  I  am  to 
blame, 
Or  why  should  I  charge  the  sin  on 
you  ? 
Our  work  is  before  us  all  the  same, 
And  the  guilt  of  it  lies  between  us 
two. 

We  have  praised  our  love    for    its 
beauty  and  grace ; 
Now  we  stand  here,   and  hardly 
dare 
To  turn  the  face-cloth  back  from  the 
face. 
And  see  the  thing  that  is  hidden 
•  there. 

Yet  look!  ah,  that  heart  has  beat  its 
last. 
And  the  beautiful  life  of  our  life  is 
o'er. 
And  when  we  have  buried  and  left 
the  past, 
We  two,  together,  can  walk   no 
more. 

You  might  stretch  yourself  on  the 
dead,  and  weep, 
And  pray  as  the  prophet  prayed, 
in  pain ; 
But  not  like  him  could  you  break  the 
sleep. 
And  bring  the  soul  to  the  clay  again. 

Its  head  in  my  bosom  1  can  lay. 
And  shower  my  woe  there,  kiss  on 
kiss, 
But  there  never  was  resurrection-day 
In  the  world  for  a  love  so  dead  as 
this. 


And,  since  we  cannot  lessen  the  sin 

By  mourning  over  the  deed  we  did, 
Let  us  draw  the  winding-sheet  up  to 
the  chin. 
Ay,  up  till  the   death-blind    eyes 
are  hid ! 


THE  LADY  JAQUELINE. 

'*  False  and  fickle,  or  fair  and  sweet, 

I  care  not  for  the  rest, 
The  lover  that  knelt  last  night  at  my 
feet 
Was  the  bravest  and  the  best. 
Let  them  perish  all,  for  their  power 
has  waned. 
And  their  glory  waxed  dim; 
They  were  well  enough  while  they 
lived  and  reigned, 
But  never  was  one  like  him ! 
And  never  one  from  the  past  would 
I  bring 
Again,  and  call  him  mine;  — 
The  King    is    dead,   long    live    the 
King!'' 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

'*  In  the  old,  old  days,  when  life  was 
new, 

And  the  world  upon  me  smiled, 
A  pretty,  dainty  lover  I  had, 

Whom  I  loved  with  the  heart  of  a 
child. 
When  the  buried  jsun  of  yesterday 

Comes  back  from  the  shadows  dim. 
Then  may  his  love  return  to  me, 

And  the  love  I  had  for  him ! 
But  since  to-day  hath  a  better  thing 

To  give,  I'll  ne'er  repine;  — 
The  King    is    dead,   long    live    the 
King!  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  And  yet  it  almost  makes  me  weep. 

Aye!  weep,  and  cry,  alas! 
When  I  think  of  one  M^ho  lies  asleep 

Down  under  the  quiet  grass. 
For  he  loved  me  well,  and  I  loved 
again. 

And  low  in  liomagB  bent, 
And  prayed  for  his  long  and  prosper- 
ous reign, 

In  our  realm  of  sweet  content. 


CABY. 


125 


But  not  to  the  dead  may  the  living 
cling, 

Nor  kneel  at  an  empty  shrine;  — 
Tfie  Kiwi  iti  dead,  lony  live  the  King!  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  Once,  caught  by  the  sheen  of  stars 
and  lace, 
1  bowed  for  a  single  day, 
To  a  poor  pretender,  mean  and  base, 

Unfit  for  place  or  sway. 
That  must  have  been  the  work  of  a 
spell, 
For  the  foolish  glamour  fled. 
As  the  sceptre  from  his  weak  hand 
fell,  (head; 

And  the  crown  from   his   feeble 
But  homage  true  at  last  I  bring 

To  this  rightful  lord  of  mine, — 
The  Kinrj    is    dead,   long    live    the 
King! " 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

**  By  the  hand  of  one  I  held  most 
dear,  • 

And  called  my  liege,  my  own! 
1  was  set  aside  in  a  single  year. 

And  a  new  queen  shares  his  throne. 
To  him  who  is  false,  and  him  who  is 
wed, 

Shall  I  give  my  fealty  ? 
Nay,  the  dead  one  is  not  half  so  dead 

As  the  false  one  is  to  me ! 
My  faith  to  the  faithful  now  I  bring, 

The  faithless  I  resign ;  — 
The  Kinq  is    dead,   long    live    the 
King!  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  Yea,  all  my  lovers  and  kings  that 
were 

Are  dead,  and  hid  away. 
In  the  past,  as  in  a  sepulchre, 

Shut  up  till  the  judgment-day. 
False  or  fickle,  or  weak  or  wed, 

They  are  all  alike  to  rae ; 
And  mine  eyes  no  more  can  be  mis- 
led,— 

They  have  looked  on  loyalty ! 
Then  bring  me  wine,  and  garlands 
bring 

For  my  king  of  the  right  divine;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King !'^ 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 


AliCHIE. 

Oh,  to  be  back  in  the  cool  summer 

shadow 
Of  that  old  maple-tree  down  in  the 

meadow ; 
Watching  the  smiles  that  grew  dearer 

and  dearer, 
Listening  to  lips  that  grew  nearer 

and  nearer; 
Oh,  to  be  back  in  the  crimson-topped 

clover. 
Sitting  again  with  my  Archie,  my 

lover ! 


Oh,  for  the  time  when  I  felt  his  ca- 
resses 

Smoothing  away  from  my  forehead 
the  tresses ; 

When  up  from  my  heart  to  my  cheek 
went  the  blushes. 

As  he  said  that  my  voice  was  as  sweet 
as  the  thrush's; 

As  he  told  me,  my  eyes  were  be- 
witchingly  jetty, 

And  I  answered  't  was  only  my  love 
made  them  pretty ! 


Talk  not  of  maiden  reserve  or  of 

duty, 
Or  hide  from  my  vision  such  visions 

of  beauty; 
Pulses  above  may  beat  calmly  and 

even, — 
We  have  been  fashioned  for  earth, 

and  not  heaven; 
Angels    are    perfect,    I    am    but    a 

woman ; 
Saints  may  be  passionless,  Archie  is 

human. 

Say  not  that  heaven  hath  tenderer 

blisses 
To  her  on  whose  brow  drops  the  soft 

rain  of  kisses ; 
Preach  not  the  promise  of  priests  or 

evangels. 
Love-crowned,   who    asks    for    the 

crown  of  the  angels  ? 
Yea,  all  that  the  wall  of  pure  jasper 

encloses, 
Takes  not  the  sweetness  from  sw^eet 

bridal  roses ! 


126 


CABY. 


Tell  me,  that  when  all  this  life  shall 
be  over, 

I  shall  still  love  him,  and  he  be  my 
lover ; 

That  'mid  flowers  more  fragrant  than 
clover  or  heather 

My  Archie  and  1  shall  be  always  to- 
gether. 

Loving  eternally,  met  ne'er  to  sever, 

Then  you  may  tell  me  of  heaven  for- 
ever. 


CONCLUSIONS. 

1  SAID,  if  I  might  go  back  again 
To  the  very  hour  and  place  of  my 
birth ; 
Might  have  my  life  whatever  I  chose. 
And  live  it  in  any  part   of    the 
earth ; 

Put  perfect  sunshine  into  my  sky, 
Banish  the  shadow  of  sorrow  and 
doubt ; 

Have  all  my  happiness  multiplied, 
And  all  my  suffering  stricken  out ; 

If  I  could  have  known  in  the  years 
now  gone. 
The  best  that  a  woman  comes  to 
know; 
Could  have  had  whatever  will  make 
her  blest. 
Or  whatever  she  thinks  will  make 
her  so; 

Have  found  the  highest  and  purest 

bliss 
That  the  bridal-wreath  and  ring 

enclose ; 
And  gained  the  one  out  of  all  the 

world. 
That  my  heart  as  well  as  my  reason 

chose; 

And  if  this  had  been,  and  I  stood  to- 
night 
By  my   children,  lying  asleep  in 
their  beds 
And  could  count  in  my  prayers,  for  a 
rosary, 
The  shining  row  of  their  golden 
heads; 


Yea!  I  said,  if  a  miracle  such  as  this 

Could  be  wrought  for  me,  at  my 

bidding,  still  [is, 

I  would  choose  to  have  my  past  as  it 

And  to  let  my  future  come  as  it 

will! 

I  would  not  make  the  path  I  have 
trod 
More     pleasant    or    even,     more 
straight  or  wide ; 
Nor  change  my  course  the  breadth  of 
a  hair. 
This  way  or  that  way,  to  either 
side. 

My  past  is  mine,  and  I  take  it  all ; 
Its  weakness,  —  its  folly,   if    you 
please ; 
Nay,  even  my  sins,  if  you  come  to 
that, 
May  have  been  my  helps,  not  hin- 
drances ! 

If  I  saved  my  body  from  the  flames 
Because  that  once  I  had  burned 
my  hand ; 
Or  kept  myself  from  a  greater  sin 
By  doing  a  less, —  you  will  under- 
stand ; 

It  was  better  I  suffered  a  little  pain, 

Better  I  sinned  for  a  little  time. 
If  the  smarting  warned  me  back  from 
death, 
And  the  sting  of  sin  withheld  from 
crime. 

Who  knows  his  strength,  by  trial, 
will  know 
What  strength  must  be  set  against 
a  sin; 
And  how  temptation  is  overcome 
He  has  learned,  who  has  felt  its 
power  within ! 

And  who  knows  how  a  life  at  the 
last  may  show  ? 
Why,    look    at    the    moon    from 
where  we  stand ! 
Opaque,   uneven,    you    say;    yet    it 
shines, 
A  luminous  sphere,  complete  and 
grand ! 


OUR    HOMESTEAD. 


Page  127. 


t     t  c  c     t      c 


O        c  fc  c      <• 

'       '  c      c 

c  c     c 


CARY. 


127 


So   let   my   past   stand,  just  as  it 
stands, 
And  let  me  now,  as  1  may,  grow 
old; 
I  am  what  I  am,  and  my  life  for  me 
Is  the  best. —  or  it  had  not  been,  I 
hold. 


ANSWERED. 

I  THOUGHT  to  find  some  healing 
clime  [shore. 

For  her  I  loved;  she  fomid  that 
That  city,  whose  inhabitants 

Ai-e  sick  and  sorrowful  no  more. 

I  asked  for  human  love  for  her; 

The  Loving  knew  how  best  to  still 
The  infinite  yearning  of  a  heart. 

Which  but  infinity  could  fill. 

Such  sweet   communion   had  been 
ours 
I  prayed  that  it  might  never  end ; 
My  prayer  is  more  than  answered; 
now 
I  have  an  angel  for  my  friend. 

I  wished  for  perfect  peace,  to  soothe 

The    troubled    anguish     of     her 

breast;  [called. 

And,  numbered  with  the  loved  and 
She  entered  on  untroubled  rest. 

Life  was  so  fair  a  thing  to  her, 
I  wept  and  pleaded  for  its  stay ; 

My  wish  was  granted  me,  for  lo ! 
She  hath  eternal  life  to-day. 


OUR  HOMESTEAD. 

Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its 
walls 
From  the  w^ay-side  dust  aloof. 
Where  the  apple-boughs  could  almost 
cast 
Their  fruit  upon  its  roof ; 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew 

That  when  aw^ake  I've  lain 
In  the  lonesome  nights,  I've  heard 
the  limbs 


As  they  creaked  against  the  pane : 
And  those  orchard  trees,  oh  those 
orchard  trees! 

I've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-briar,  under  the  window- 
sill. 
Which  the  early  birds  made  glad. 
And  the  damask  rose,  by  the  garden- 
fence. 
Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since 
then. 
Exotics  rich  and  rare. 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier 

But  not  to  me  so  fair; 
For    those    roses    bright,   oh,  those 
roses  bright!  [locks, 

I  have  twined  them  in  my  sister's 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight. 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well. 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry. 
And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the 
mossy  stones 
Were  falling  constantly ; 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so 
sweet 
As  the  draught  which  filled  my  cup. 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude 
old  sweep 
That  my  father's  hand  set  up. 
And  that  deep  old  well,  oh  that  deep 
old  well ! 
I  remember  now  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 
Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet ; 
There  my  mother's  voice  was  always 
kind. 
And  her  smile  was  always  sweet; 
And  there  I've  sat  on  my  father's 
knee. 
And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With  my  childish  hand  in  his  raven 
hair, — 
That  hair  is  silver  now ! 
But  that   broad  hearth's  light,  oh, 

that  broad  hearth's  light! 
And  my  father's  look,  and  my  moth- 
er's smile, 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night ! 


128 


CLARK. 


LuELLA   Clark. 


IF   YOU  LOVE  ME. 

If  you  love  me,  tell  me  not; 
Let  me  read  it  in  your  thought ; 
Let  me  feel  it  in  the  way 
That  you  say  me  yea  and  nay ; 

Let  me  see  it  in  your  eye 
When  you  greet  or  pass  me  by ; 
Let  me  hear  it  in  the  tone 
Meant  for  me  and  me  alone. 

If  you  love  me,  there  will  be 
Something  only  I  shall  see ; 
Meet  or  miss  me,  stay  or  go, 
If  you  love  me,  I  shall  know. 

Something  in  your  tone  will  tell, 
"  Dear,  I  love  you,  love  you  well." 


Something  in  your  eyes  will  shine 
Fairer  that  they  look  in  mine. 

In  your  mien  some  touch  of  grace. 
Some  swift  smile  upon  your  face 
While  you  speak  not,  will  betray 
What  your  lips  could  scarcely  say. 

In  your  speech  some  silver  word. 
Tuning  into  sweet  accord 
All  your  bluntness  will  reveal, 
Unaware,  the  love  you  feel. 

If  you  love  me,  then,  I  pray, 
Tell  me  not,  but,  day  by  day, 
Let  love  silent  on  me  rise. 
Like  the  sun  in  smnmer  skies. 


Sarah   D.   Clark. 


THE  SOLDANELLA. 

In  the  warm  valley,  rich  in  summer's 

wealth. 
Where  tangled  weed  and  shrub,  thin 

leaves  unclose. 
Profuse    and     hardy    in    luxuriant 

health, 
The  Soldanella  grows. 

Common  —  if  aught  be  common  in 

God's  care, — 
lis  buds  no  beauty  show  to  charm 

the  eye, 
Xor  graceful  pencillings  in  colors  rare. 
Enchant  the  passer-by. 

Yet,  on  yon  distant  heights  of  ice- 
pearled  snow. 

Where  mortals  barely  can  a  pathway 
trace. 

The  Alpine  blossom  of  the  vale  be- 
low 
Blooms  in  ethereal  grace. 


Unlike,  and  yet  the  same,  its  petals 
blow 

Most    like    a    crystal    lily    in    the 
air; 

A  dream  of  beauty  'mid  the  cheer- 
less snow, — 
A  comfort  in  despair. 

How  came  it  trembling  in  the  icy 

gloom 
Where  awful  steppes  and  frowning 

glaciers  rise 
So    marvellous  in  presence  and  in 

bloom 
Even  to  angelic  eyes  ? 

While  thus  I  mused,  the  fragile  blos- 
som seemed 

Instinct  with  life,  a  spirit-form  to 
take; 

Its  fringed  corolla  with  new  radiance 
beamed 
A  voice  within  it  spake :  —  ^ 


CLEMMER. 


129 


"  Men  marvel  on  these  airy  fields  of 

Take,  with  the  fragrance  of  my  lat- 

space 

est  breath, 

My  tender  form  emergent  to  behold, 

This  lesson  to  thy  heart: 

A  blossom  of  the  skies — my  name  they 

trace 

"  Go  thou,  to  triumph  in  some  glori- 

With stars  and  suns  enrolled. 

ous  strife. 

Through    daring  paths  some  noble 

"Though  bom  and  nurtured  in  the 

cause  retrieve; 

lowly  vale, 

Seek,  to  the  highest  measure  of  thy 

Ignoble  ease  I  was  not  doomed  to 

life. 

bear; 

Thy  purpose  to  achieve. 

I  pined  to  scale  the  heights  where 

eagles  sail, 

"  Go  tell  the  world,  in  Freedom's  bat- 

And paled  for  Freedom's  air! 

tle  drawn, 

For  one  brief  hour,  its  horoscope  I 

*'  Not  without  toil  my  painful  steps 

see; 

were  bent 

Tell    one  by  one  who  fall,   'Swift 

Through  paths  imperilled,  and  the 

comes  the  dawn 

icy  sea, 

To  herald  victory.' " 

From  Alp  to  Alp  I  gained  my  steep 

ascent, 

It  ceased  —  the  murmur  died  upon 

And  hard-won  victory ! 

mine  ear. 

Straightway  a  threatening  blast  the 

"  If  these  pale  lips,  so  soon  to  close 

trumpet  gave; 

in  death, 

The  next  wind  bore  the  seedling  of 

One  touch  of  hope  or  solace  can  im- 

the year 

part, 

On  to  its  snowy  grave ! 

Mary  Clemmer. 


WORDS  FOR  PARTING. 

Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  dear. 

In  the  coming  years,  I  wonder, 
When  our  paths,  which  lie  so  sweetly 
near. 

Shall  lie  so  far  asunder  ? 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  dear. 

Through  all  the  sad  to-morrows, 
When  the  sunny  smile  has  ceased  to 
cheer 

That  smiles  away  my  sorrows  ? 

What  shall  I  do,  my  friend, 
When  you  are  gone  forever  ? 

My  heart  its  eager  need  will  send 
Through   the    years    to    find    you 
never. 

And  how  will  it  be  with  you. 
In  the  weary  Morld,  I  wonder, 


Will  you  love  me  with  a  love  as  true, 
When  our  paths  lie  far  asunder  ? 

A  sweeter,  sadder  thing 

My  life,  for  having  known  you ; 
Forever  with  my  sacred  kin. 

My  soul's  soul  I  must  own  you. 
Forever  mine,  my  friend, 

From  June  to  life's  December; 
Not  mine  to  have  or  hold. 

But  to  pray  for  and  remember. 

The  way  is  short,  O  friend. 

That  reaches  out  before  us ; 
God's  tender  heavens  above  us  bend. 

His  love  is  smiling  o'er  us; 
A  little  while  is  ours 

For  sorrow  or  for  laughter; 
I'll  lay  the  hand  you  love  in  yours 

On  the  shore  of  the  Hereafter. 


130 


CLEMMER. 


NANTASKET. 

Fair  is  thy  face,  Xantasket, 

And  fair  tliy  curving  shores, — 
The  peering  spires  of  villages, 

The  boatman's  dipping  oars, 
The  lonely  ledge  of  Minot, 

Where    the    watchman    tends  his 
light. 
And  sets  his  perilous  beacon, 

A  star  in  the  stormiest  night. 

Over  thy  vast  sea  highway, 

The  great  ships  slide  from  sight, 
And  flocks  of  winged  phantoms 

Flit  by,  like  birds  in  flight. 
Over  the  toppling  sea-wall 

The  home-bound  dories  float. 
And  I  watch  the  patient  fisherman 

Bend  in  his  anchored  boat. 

I  am  alone  with  Nature; 

With  the  glad  September  day. 
The  leaning  hills  above  me 

With  golden-rod  are  gay, 
Across  the  fields  of  ether 

Flit  butterflies  at  play. 
And  cones  of  garnet  sumach 

Glow  down  the  country  way. 

The  autumn  dandelion 

Along  the  rof^dside  burns; 
Down  from  the  lichened  boulders 

Quiver  the  plumed  ferns; 
The  cream-white  silk  of  the  milkweed 

Floats  from  its  sea-green  pod ; 
Out  from  the  mossy  rock-seams 

Flashes  the  golden-rod. 

The  woodbine's  scarlet  banners 

Flaunt  from  their  towers  of  stone ; 
The  wan,  wild  morning-glory 

Dies  by  the  road  alone; 
By  the  hill-path  to  the  seaside 

Wave  myriad  azure  bells ; 
And  over  the  grassy  ramparts  lean 

The  milky  immortelles. 

Hosts  of  gold-hearted  daisies 

Nod  by  the  wayside  bars; 
The  tangled  thicket  of  green  is  set 

With  the  aster's  purxile  stars; 


Besid-e  the  brook  the  gentian 

Closes  its  fringed  eyes, 
And  waits  the  later  glory 

Of  October's  yellow  skies. 

Within  the  sea-washed  meadow 

The  wild  grape  climbs  the  wall, 
And  from  the  o'er-ripe  chestnuts 

The  brown  burs  softly  fall. 
I  see  the  tall  reeds  shiver 

Beside  the  salt  sea  marge ; 
I  see  the  sea-bird  glimmer, 

Far  out  on  airy  barge. 

I  hear  in  the  groves  of  Hingham 

The  friendly  caw  of  the  crow, 
Till  I  sit  again  in  AVachusett's  woods, 

In  August's  sumptuous  glow. 
The  tiny  boom  of  the  beetle 

Strikes  the  shining  rocks  below; 
The  gauzy  oar  of  the  dragon-fly 

Is  beating  to  and  fro. 

As  the  lovely  ghost  of  the  thistle 

Goes  sailing  softly  by; 
Glad  in  its  second  summer 

Hums  the  awakened  fly ; 
The  cumulate  cry  of  the  cricket 

Pierces  the  amber  noon ; 
In  from  the  vast  sea-spaces  comes 

The  clear  call  of  the  loon ; 
Over  and  through  it  all  I  hear 

Ocean's  pervasive  rune. 

Against  the  warm  sea-beaches 

Eush  the  wavelets'  eager  lips; 
Away  o'er  the  sapphire  reaches 

Move  on  the  stately  ships. 
Peace  floats  on  all  their  pennons, 

Sailing  silently  the  main, 
As  if  never  human  anguish. 

As  if  never  human  pain. 
Sought  the  healing  draught  of  Lethe, 

Beyond  the  gleaming  plain. 

Fair  is  the  earth  behind  me. 

Vast  is  the  sea  before. 
Away  through  the  misty  dimness 

Glimmers  a  further  shore. 
It  is  no  realm  enchanted. 

It  cannot  be  more  fair 
Than  this  nook  of  Nature's  Kingdom, 

With  its  spell  of  space  and  air. 


CLOUGH. 


131 


WAITING. 
I    WAIT, — 

Till  from  my  veiled  brows  shall  fall 
This    baffling    cloud,   this   wearying 

thrall, 
Wliich  holds  rae  now  from  knowing 

all; 
Until  my  spirit-sight  shall  see 
Into  all  being's  mystery, 
See  what  it  really  is  to  be ! 


I  wait, — 
"VMiile  rolling  days  in  mockery  fling 
Such  cruel  loss  athwart  my  spring. 
And  life  flags  on  with  broken  wing; 
Believing  that  a  kindlier  fate 


The  t)atient  soul  will  compensate 
For  all  it  loses,  ere  too  late. 

I  wait! 
For  surely  every  scanty  seed 
I  plant  in  weakness  and  in  need 
Will  blossom  in  perfected  deed ! 
Mine  eyes  shall  see  its  aftiuent  crown, 
Its  fragrant  fruitage,  dropping  down 
Care's  lowly  levels,  bare  and  brown! 

I  wait ! 
The  summer  of  the  soul  is  long. 
Its  harvests  yet  shall  round  me  throng 
In  perfect  pomp  of  sun  and  song. 
In  stormless  mornings  yet  to  be 
I'll  pluck  from  life's  full-fruited  tree 
The  joy  to-day  denied  to  me. 


Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


NO  MORE. 

My  wind  has  turned  to  bitter  north. 

That  was  so  soft  a  south  before ; 
My  sky,  that  shone  so  sunny  bright, 

With  foggy  gloom  is  clouded  o'er; 
My  gay  green  leaves  are  yellow-black 

Upon  the  dark  autumnal  floor ; 
For  love,  departed  once,  comes  back 

No  more  again,  no  more. 

A  roofless  ruin  lies  my  home. 

For  winds  to  blow  and  rains  to 
pour ; 
One  frosty  night  befell  —  and  lo ! 

I  find  my  summer  days  are  o'er. 
The  heart  bereaved, of  why  and  how 

Unknowing,  knows  that  yet  before 
It  had  what  e'en  to  memoiy  now 

Returns  no  more,  no  more. 


BECALMED  AT  EVE. 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 

Two  towers  of  sail,  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  des- 
cried ; 


When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the 
breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they 
plied; 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same 
seas 
By  eacli  was  cleaving,  side  by  side: 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  un- 
changed. 
Brief  absence  joined  anew,  to  feel. 
Astounded,    soul    from    soul    es- 
tranged. 

At    dead  of  night  their  sails  were 
filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered ; 
Ah !  neither  blamed,  for  neither  willed 
Or  wist  what  first  wdth  dawn  ap- 
peared. 

To    veer,    how   vain!    On,   onward 
strain. 
Brave  barks !    In  light,  in  darkness 
too! 
Through  winds  and  tides  one  com- 
pass guides  — 
To  that  and  your  own  selves  be  true. 


132 


CLOUQK 


But  O  blithe  breeze !  and  O  great'  seas, 
Though  ne'er  that  earliest  parting 
past. 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One    port,    methought,    alike    they 
sought  — 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they 
fare; 
O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas, 
At  last,  at  last  unite  them  there ! 


NATUBA  NATURANS. 

Beside  me, —  in  the  car, —  she  sat; 

She  spake  not,  no,  nor  looked  to 
me. 
From  her  to  me,  from  me  to  her. 

What  passed  so  subtly,  stealthily  ? 
As  rose  to  rose,  that  by  it  blows. 

Its  interchanged  aroma  flings ; 
Or  wake  to  sound  of  one  sweet  note 

The  virtues  of  disparted  strings. 

Beside  me,  nought  but  this?  —  but 
this, 

That  influent ;  as  within  me  dAvelt 
Her  life ;  mine  too  within  her  breast, 

Her  brain,  her  every  limb,  she  felt. 
We  sat;  while  o'er  and  in  us,  more 

And  more,  a  power  unknown  pre- 
vailed. 
Inhaling  and  inhaled, —  and  still 

'Twas  one,  inhaling  or  inhaled. 

Beside    me,   nought    but    this;  and 
passed  — 

I  passed ;  and  know  not  to  this  day 
If  gold  or  jet  her  girlish  hair — 

If  black,  or  brown,  or  lucid-gray 
Her  eye's  young  glance.     The  fickle 
chance 

That  joined  us  yet  may  join  again ; 
But  I  no  face  again  could  greet 

As  hers,  whose  life  was  in  me  then. 

As  unsuspecting  mere  a  maid  — 

,   As  fresh  in  maidhood's  bloomiest 

bloom  — 
In  casual  second-class  did  e'er 
By  casual  youth  her  seat  assume ; 


Or  vestal,  say,  of  saintliest  clay, 
For  once  by  balmiest  airs  betrayed 

Unto  emotions  too,  too  sweet 
To  be  unlingeringly  gainsaid. 

Unowning  then,  confusing  soon 

With    dreamier  dreams  that  o'er 
the  glass 
Of  shyly  ripening  woman-sense 

Reflected,  scarce  reflected,  pass  — 
A  wife  may  be,  a  mother,  she 

In  Hymen's  shrine  recalls  not  now 
She  first  —  in  hour,  ah,  not  profane !  — 

With  me  to  Hymen  learnt  to  bow. 

Ah  no !  —  yet  owned  we,  fused  in  one, 

The  power  which,  e'en  in  stones 
and  earths 
By  blind  elections  felt,  in  forms 

Organic  breeds  to  myriad  births ; 
By  lichen  small  on  granite  wall 

Approved,  its  faintest,  feeblest  &tir 
Slow-spreading,  strengthening  long, 
at  last 

Vibrated  full  in  me  and  her. 

In  me  and  her sensation  strange ! 

The  lily  grew  to  pendent  head ; 
To  vernal  airs  the  mossy  bank 

Its  sheeny  primrose  spangles  spread ; 
In  roof  o'er  roof  of  shade  sun-proof 

Did  cedar  strong  itself  outclimb; 
And  altitude  of  aloe  proud 

Aspire  in  floral  crown  sublime ; 

Flashed    flickering    forth    fantastic 
flies; 

Big  bees  their  burly  bodies  swung; 
Rooks  roused  with  civic  din  the  elms ; 

And  lark  its  wild  reveille  rung; 
In  Libyan  dell  the  light  gazelle. 

The  leopard  lithe  in  Indian  glade, 
And  dolphin,  brightening  tropic  seas. 

In  us  were  living,  leapt  and  played. 

Their  shells  did  slow  Crustacea  build ; 
Their  gilded  skins  did  snakes  re- 
new; 
Wliile  mightier  spines  for  loftier  kind 
Their  types  in  amplest  limbs  out- 
grew; 
Yea,  close  comprest  in  human  breast. 
What  moss,  and  tree,  and  hvelier 
thing  — 


COLERIDGE. 


133 


What  Earth,  Sun,  Star,  of  force  pos- 
sest, 
Lay  budding,  burgeoning  forth  for 
spring! 

Such  sweet  prehiding  sense,  of  old 

Led  on  in  Eden's  sinless  place 
The     hour    when    bodies     human 
first 
Combined  the  primal,  prime  em- 
brace ; 
Sucn  genial  heat  the  blissful  seat 
In  "man   and  woman  owned  un- 
blamed, 


When,  naked  both,  its  garden  paths 
They    walked     unconscious,     un- 
ashamed ; 

Ere,  clouded  yet  in  mightiest  dawn,    . 

Above  the  horizon  dusk  and  dun. 
One  mountain  crest  with  light  had 
tipped 

That  orb  that  is  the  spirit's  sun; 
Ere  dreamed  young  flowers  in  vernal 
showers 

Of  fruit  to  rise  the  flower  above. 
Or  ever  yet  to  young  Desire 

Was  told  the  mystic  name  of  love. 


Hartley  Coleridge. 


ADDRESS  TO  CERTAIX  GOLD- 
FISHES. 

Restless  forms  of  living  light 
Quivering  on  your  lucid  wings, 
Cheating  still  the  curious  sight 
With  a  thousand  shadowings ; 
"Various  as  the  tints  of  even, 
Gorgeous  as  the  hues  of  heaven. 
Reflected  on  your  native  streams 
In  flitting,  flashing,  billowy  gleams! 
Harmless  warriors,  clad  in  mail 
Of  silver  breastplate,  golden  scale ;  — 
Mail  of  Nature's  own  bestowing, 
With  peaceful  radiance  mildly  glow- 
ing- 
Fleet  are  ye  as  fleetest  galley 
Or  pirate  rover  sent  from  Sallee ; 
Keener  than  the  Tartar's  arrow, 
Sport  ye  in  your  sea  so  narrow. 

Was  the  sun  himself  your  sire  ? 
Were  ye  born  of  vital  fire  ? 
Or  of  the  shade  of  golden  flowers, 
Such  as  we  fetch  from  Eastern  bow- 
ers, 
To  mock  this  murky  clime  of  ours  ? 
Upwards,  downwards,  now  ye  glance, 
Weaving  many  a  mazy  dance; 
Seeming  still  to  grow  in  size 
When  ye  would  elude  our  eyes  — 
Pretty  creatures !  we  might  deem 
Ye  were  happy  as  ye  seem  — 


As  gay,  as  gamesome,  and  as  blithe, 
As  light,  as  loving,  and  as  lithe. 
As  gladly  earnest  in  your  play. 
As  when  ye  gleamed  in  far  Cathay. 

And  yet,  since  on  this  hapless  earth 
There's  small  sincerity  in  mirth. 
And  laughter  oft  is  but  an  art 
To  drown  the  outcry  of  the  heart ; 
It  may  be  that  your  ceaseless  gambols, 
Your  wheelings,   dartings,    divings, 

rambles. 
Your  restless  roving  round  and  round, 
The  circuit  of  your  crystal  bound  — 
Is  but  the  task  of  weary  pain. 
An  endless  labor,  dull  and  vain; 
And  while  your  forms  are  gaily  shin- 
ing, 
Your  little  lives  are  inly  pining! 
Nay  —  but  still  I  fain  would  dream 
That  ye  are  happy  as  ye  seem. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  YOUTH. 

Youth,  thou  art  fled,  —  but  where 

are  all  the  charms 
Which,  though  with  thee  they  came, 

and  passed  with  thee. 
Should  leave  a  perfume  and  sweet 

memory 


134 


COLERIDGE. 


Of  what  they  have  been  ?  All  thy 
boons  and  harms 

Have  perished  quite.  Thy  oft-re- 
vered alarms 

-Forsake  the  fluttering  echo.  Smiles 
and  tears 

Die  on  my  cheek,  or,  petrified  with 
years, 

Show  the  dull  woe  which  no  compas- 
sion warms, 

The  mirth  none  shares.  Yet  could 
a  wish,  a  thought, 

Unravel  all  the  complex  web  of 
age,— 

Could  all  the  characters  that  Time 
hath  wrought 

Be  clean  effaced  from  my  memorial 
page 

By  one  short  word,  the  word  I  would 
not  say ;  — 

I  thank  my  God  because  my  hairs  are 
gray. 


NOVEMBER. 

The  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its 
close; 

The  little  birds  have  almost  sung 
their  last, 

Their  small  notes  twitter  in  the 
dreary  blast  — 

That  shrill-piped  harbinger  of  early 
snows ;  — 

The  patient  beauty  of  the  scentless 
rose. 

Oft  with  the  morn's  hoar  crystal 
quaintly  glassed. 

Hangs  a  pale  mourner  for  the  sum- 
mer past, 

And  makes  a  little  summer  where  it 
grows ;  — 

In  the  chill  sunbeam  of  the  faint  brief 
day 

The  dusky  waters  shudder  as  they 
shine ; 

The  russet  leaves  obstruct  the  strag- 
gling way 

Of  oozy  brooks,  which  no  deep  banks 
define. 


And    the  gaunt  woods,   in    ragged, 

scant  array, 
Wrap  their  old  limbs  with  sombre 

ivy-twine. 


NO  LIFE   VAIN. 

Let  me  not  deem  that  I  was  made 

in  vain, 
Or  that  my  being  was  an  accidentf 
Which  fate,  in  working  its  sublime 

intent, 
Not  wished  to  be,  to  hinder  would 

not  deign. 
Each  drop  uncounted  in  a  storm  of 

rain 
Hath  its  own  mission,  and  is  duly 

sent 
To  its  own  leaf  or  blade,   not  idly 

spent 
'Mid  myriad  dimples  on  the  shipless 

main. 
The  very  shadow  of  an  insect's  wing, 
For  which  the  violet  cared  not  while 

it  stayed. 
Yet  felt  the  lighter  for  its  vanishing, 
Proved  that  the  sun  was  shining  by 

its  shade : 
Then  can  a  drop  of  the  eternal  spring. 
Shadow  of  living  lights,  in  vain  be 

made? 


SONG. 


She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view. 

As  many  maidens  be, 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me; 
Oh,  then  1  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold. 
To  mine  they  ne'er  reply; 

And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 
The  lovelight  in  her  eye, 

Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 

Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 


COLERIDGE. 


135 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


{Passages  from  The  liime  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner.] 

THE  SHIP  BECALMED. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam 

flew, 
The  furrow  followed  free ; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea, 

Down  droptthe  breeze,  the  sails  dropt 

down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand. 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 
Water,  water,  everywhere. 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER    REFRESHED 
BY  SLEEP  AND  RAIN 

0  sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing. 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 

To  Mary  queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven. 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck. 
That  had  so  long  remained, 

1  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with 

dew ; 
Anl  when  I  awoke  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,    my  throat  was 

cold. 
My  garments  all  were  dank. 


Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams. 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I    moved,    ^nd    could  not  feel  my 

limbs: 
I  was  so  light  —  almost 
1  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 


THE   VOICES   OF  THE  ANGELS. 

Around,   around,   flew  each  sweet 

sound. 
Then  darted  to  the  sun ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
1  heard  the  sky-lark  sing ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and 

air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song. 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 


PENANCE  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER, 
AND  HIS  REVERENT  TEACHING. 

FoRTirwiTH  this  frame  of  mine  was 

wrenched 
With  a  woful  agony, 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale : 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns : 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  bums. 


136 


COLERIDGE. 


I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  lond  uproar  bursts  from  that 

door! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there: 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bridemaids  singing  are: 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
AVhich  biddeth  me  to  prayer! 

O    Wedding-Guest!    this    soul    hath 

been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea: 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 
With  a  goodly  company ! 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 
And  all  together  pray. 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends. 
Old    men,    and    babes,    and    loving 

friends 
And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 

Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,thou  Wedding-Guest! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Wliose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone:  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He   went  like  one  that  hath  been 

stunned. 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
He  rose  the  morrow  mom. 


{From  Christabel J] 
BROKEN  FRIENDSHIPS. 

Alas!  they  had   been   friends  in 
youth ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison 

truth ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above; 
And    life    is  thorny;  and  youth  is 

vain ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love. 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother: 
They  parted  —  ne'er  to  meet  again! 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  pain- 
ing — 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asun- 
der 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between ;  — 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thun- 
der. 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween. 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath 
been. 


[From  The  Three  Graves.] 
BELL  AND  BROOK. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis  sweet 

To  hear  the  Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  them  both  at  once, 

Deep  in  a  woody  dell. 


[From  Dejection.] 

A  GRIEF  without  a  pang,  void,  dark, 
and  drear, 
A  stifled,   drowsy,  unimpassioned 

grief. 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no 
relief. 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear  — 
O  lady!    in  this  wan  and  heartless 
mood, 


COLE  RID  OE. 


137 


To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle 

wooed, 
All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  se- 
rene, 
Have  1  been  gazing  on  the  western 

sky, 
And    its    pecular   tint    of   yellow 

green : 
And    still    I   gaze  —  and   with  how 

blank  an  eye ! 
And    those    thin    clouds    above,   in 

flakes  and  bars, 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the 

stars ; 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them 

or  between, 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedimmed,  but 

always  seen: 
Yon  crescent  moon  as  fixed  as  if  it 

grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of 

blue ; 
I  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 
I  see,  not  feel  how  beautiful  they  are ! 

My  genial  spirits  fail ; 
And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from 
off  my  breast  ? 
It  were  a  vain  endeavor. 
Though  I  should  gaze  forever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in 

the  west: 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms 

to  win 
The  passion    and    the   life,    whose 
fountains  are  within. 

O  Lady !  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live: 

Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours 
her  shroud ! 
And   would  we  aught  behold,   of 
higher  worth, 

Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  al- 
lowed 

To  the   poor  loveless,  ever-anxious 
crowd. 
Ah !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue 
forth, 

A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 
Enveloping  the  earth  — 

And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there 
be  sent 


A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its 
own  birth. 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  ele- 
ment! 

O  pure  of  heart!  thou  need'st  not 
ask  of  me 

Wliat  this  strong  music  in  the  soul 
may  be ! 

What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 

This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  lumi- 
nous mist, 

This    beautiful   and    beauty-making 
power. 
Joy,    virtuous    lady,  —  joy    that 
ne'er  was  given. 

Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest 
hour, 

Life,  and  life's  effluence,  cloud  at 
once  and  shower 

Joy,  lady,  is  the  spirit  and  the  power, 

Which  vv'edding  Nature  to  us  gives 
in  dower, 
A  new  earth  and  new  heaven. 

Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the 
proud  — 

Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  joy  the  lumi- 
nous cloud  — 
We  in  ourselves  rejoice! 

And  thence  floAvs  all  that  charms  or 
ear  or  sight. 
All    melodies  the  echoes  of  that 
voice. 

All  colors  a  suffusion  from  that  light. 

There  was  a  time  when,  though  my 

path  was  rough. 
This  joy  within  me  dallied  with 

distress, 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the 

stuff 
Whence  Fancy  made  me  dreams  of 

happiness : 
For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the 

twining  vine. 
And  fruits,  and  foliage,  not  my  own, 

seemed  mine. 
But  now  afflictions  bow  me  down  to 

earth : 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my 

mirth, 
But  oh !  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my 

birth, 


138 


COLERIDGE. 


My  shaping  spirit  of  imagination. 
For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs 
must  feel. 
But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  1 
can; 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to 
steal 
From  my  own  nature  all  the  nat- 
ural man  — 
This  was  my  sole  resource,  ray  only 
plan : 
Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects 

the  whole, 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit 
of  my  soul. 

Hence,    viper    thoughts,    that    coil 
around  my  mind, 
Reality's  dark  dream! 
I  turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the 
wind, 

Thou  actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic 
sounds! 
Thou  mighty  poet,   e'en    to  frenzy 
bold ! 
What  tell'st  thou  now  about  ? 
'Tis  of  the  rushing  of  a  host  in 
rout, 
With  groans  of  trampled  men,  with 
smarting  wounds  — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and 

shudder  with  the  cold ! 
But  hush !  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest 
silence! 
And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing 
crowd. 
With  groans,  and  tremulous  shudder- 
ings  —  all  is  over  — 
It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds 
less  deep  and  loud ! 
A  tale  of  less  affright. 
And  tempered  with  delight, 
As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  ten- 
der lay, 
'Tis  of  a  little  child 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 
Not  far  from  home,   but  she  hath 

lost  her  way : 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief 

and  fear, 
A.nd  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to 
make  her  mother  hear. 


HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE  IN  THE 
VALLEY  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the 
morning-star 

In  his  steep  course  ?  So  long  he 
seems  to  pause 

On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran 
Blanc! 

The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy 
base 

Rave  ceaselessly;  but  thou,  most  aw- 
ful form! 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of 
pines, 

How  silently !  Around  thee  and  above 

Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial, 
black, 

An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  pierc- 
est  it. 

As  with  a  wedge !  But  when  I  look 
again. 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crys- 
tal shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  mount!  I  gazed 

upon  thee. 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily 
sense. 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought:  en- 
tranced in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling 
melody, 

So  swTct,  we  know  not  we  are  listen- 
ing to  it. 

Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending 
with  my  thought, 

Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  se- 
cret joy: 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enwrapt, 
transfused. 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing  — 
there 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast 
to  Heaven ! 

AM'ake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive 

praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling 

tears. 
Mute    thanks    and    secret    ecstasy.' 

Awake, 


COLERIDGE, 


139 


Voice  of  sweet  song.    Awake,  my 

Wlio  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates 

heart,  awake! 

of  Heaven 

Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?    Who 

hymn. 

bade  the  sun 

Clothe   you  with  rainbows?    Who, 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  so.vran 

with  living  flowers 

of  the  vale ! 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at 

Oh,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all 

your  feet  ?  — 

the'night, 

God !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of 

And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of 

nations, 

stars, 

Answer  I  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo, 

Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when 

God! 

they  sink: 

God!  sing  ye  meadow-streams,  with 

Companion  of  the  morning-star  at 

gladsome  voice! 

dawn, 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and 

Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the 

soul-like  sounds! 

dawn 

And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles 

Co-herald :  wake,  oh,  wake,  and  utter 

of  snow. 

praise ! 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thun- 

Who sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in 

der,  God! 

earth  ? 

Who    filled    thy    countenance    with 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eter- 

rosy light  ? 

nal  frost! 

Wlio  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting   round  the 

streams  ? 

eagle's  nest! 

Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain 

And   you,    ye    five   wild  torrents 

storm ! 

fiercely  glad ! 

Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and 

clouds ! 

utter  death. 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you 

Utter  forth   God,  and  fill  the  hills 

forth. 

with  praise ! 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jag- 

ged rocks. 

Thou  too,  hoar  mount!  with  thy 

For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for 

sky-pointing  peaks. 

ever? 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche, 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 

unheard, 

Your  strength,  yoiu-  speed,  your  fury. 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through 

and  your  joy. 

the  pure  serene 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil 

And  who  commanded  (and  the  si- 

thy breast— 

lence  came,) 

Thou  too  again,  stupendous  moun- 

Here let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have 

tain  !  thou 

rest? 

That  as  I  raise   my   head,    awhile 

bowed  low 

Ye    ice-falls  I    ye   that   from   the 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

mountain's  brow 

Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suf- 

Adown    enormous     ravines     slope 

fused  with  tears, 

amain  — 

Solemnly    seemest,    like    a    vapory 

Torrents,    methinks,    that    heard    a 

cloud, 

mighty  voice. 

To    rise  before  me  — Rise,   0  ever 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  mad- 

rise. 

dest  plunge ! 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  th« 

Motionless  torrents !  silent  cataracts ! 

earth ! 

140 


COLERTDOE. 


Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among 

the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth 

to  Heaven, 
Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent 

sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising 

sun. 
Earth,    with   her    thousand    voices, 

praises  God. 


LOVE,  HOPE  AND  PATIENCE  IN 
EDUCATION. 

O'er    wayward   childhood  would' st 

thou  hold  firm  rule, 
And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy 

faces; 
Love,    Hope,    and    Patience,    these 

must  be  thy  graces. 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first 

keep  school, 


O  part  them  never!    If  hope  pros- 
trate lie. 
Love  too  will  sink  and  die. 

But  Love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof 
derive 

From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet 
alive; 

And  bending  o'er  with  soul-transfus- 
ing eyes, 

And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother 
dove, 

Woos    back  the  fleeting  spirit  and 
half-suprplies;  — 

Thus  Love  repays    to    Hope    what 
Hope  first  gave  to  Love. 

Yet  haply  there  will  come  a  weary 
day 
When  overtasked  at  length 

Both  Love  and   Hope  beneath  the 
load  give  way. 

Then  with  a  statue's  smile,  a  statue's 
strength. 

Stands    the    mute    sister,    Patience, 
nothing  loth. 

And  both  supporting,  does  the  work 
of  both. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

Verse,  a  breeze,  mid  blossoms  stray- 
ing, 
Where    hope    climg  fading,   like  a 

bee — 
Both  were  mine!  Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young! 
When  1  was  young?  —  Ah,    woful 

when ! 
Ah!  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and 

Then! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with 

hands. 
This   body    that    does    me  grievous 

wrong. 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands. 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along:  — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of 

yore. 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar. 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide ! 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or 

weather 
When  youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely ;  Love  is  flower- 
like; 

Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree; 

O !  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower- 
like. 

Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 
Ere  1  was  old. 

Ere  I  was  old  ?    Ah,  woful  ere, 

Which  tells  me.  Youth's  no  longer 
here ! 

0  Youth!    for  years  so  many  and 

sweet, 
'Tis  known,  that  thou  and  I  were 

one, 
r  11  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit  — 
It  cannot  be,  that  thou  art  gone! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  tolled : — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put 

on. 
To  make  believe,  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips. 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size: 
But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips. 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine 

eyes! 


COLERIDGE. 


141 


Life    is    but    thought:    so    think    I 

will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates 

still. 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning 
Ikit  the  tears  of  mournful  eve ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old : 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest, 
Thatfttiay  not  rudely  be  dismist. 
Yet    hath    outstayed    his    welcome 

while. 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


COMPLAINT  AND  REPROOF. 

How  seldom,  friend!  a  good   great 

man  inherits 
Honor  or  wealth,  with  all  his  worth 

and  pains! 
It  soimds  like  stories  from  the  land 

of  spirits. 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  he 

merits. 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains. 

For  shame,  dear  friend!  renounce 
this  canting  strain ! 

WTiat  wouldst  thou  have  a  good 
great  man  obtain  ? 

Place,  titles,  salary  —  a  gilded  chain  — 

Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword 
hath  slain  ?  — 

Greatness  and  goodness  are  not 
means,  but  ends ! 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always 
friends, 

The  good  great  man? — three  treas- 
ures, love  and  light, 

And  calm  thoughts,  regular  as  in- 
fant's breath:  — 

And  three  firm  friends,  more  sure 
than  day  and  night  — 

Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel 
Death. 


LOVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  de- 
lights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
Wlien  midway  on  the  mount  1  lay. 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The    moonshine,   stealing    o'er    the 

scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 
My  hope!  my  joy  I  my  Genevieve! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined :  and  ah ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With    downcast   eyes,    and    modest 

grace; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face ! 


142 


COLLIER. 


But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed   that    bold    and    lovely 

knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain- 
woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night : 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome 

shade. 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  tliat  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than 
deatli 
Tlie  lady  of  the  land ;  — 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his 

knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain  — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ;  — 

His  dying  words  —  but  when  I  reached 

That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 

Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity ! 


All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve; 

And  hopes,   and  fears  that   kindle 

hope. 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 
She   blushed    with  love  and  virgin 

shame ;  , 

And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her    bosom    heaved  —  she    stepped 

aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept  — 
Then  suddenly,  witli  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked 
up. 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art. 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I    calmed  her  fears,    and    she   was 

calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 


Thomas   Stephens   Collier. 


OFF  LABRADOR. 

The     storm-wind     moans    tlirough 

branches  bare; 

The  snow  flies  wildly  through  the  air; 

The  mad  waves  roar,  as  fierce  and 

high  [sky. 

They  Loss  their  crests  against  the 


All  dark  and  desolate  lies  the  sand 
Along    the     wastes     of     a     barren 
land ; 
And  rushing  on,  with  sheets  flung 

free, 
A  ship  sails  down  from  the  north- 
ern sea. 


COLLIER. 


143 


With  lips  pressed  hard   the  helms- 
man stands, 
Grasping  the  spokes  with  freezing 
liands, 
While  white  the  reef  lies  in  his  padi, 
Swept  by  an  ocean  full  of  wrath. 

The  surf-roar  4n  the  blast  is  lost, 
The  foam-flakes  by  the  wild  wind  tost 
High  up  in  air,  no  warning  show, 
Hid  by  the  driving  mass  of  snow. 

With  sudden  bound  and  sullen  grate. 
The  brave  ship  rushes  to  her  fate, 

And  splintered  deck  and  broken 
mast 

Make  homage  to  the  roaring  blast. 

Amid  the  waves,  float  riven  plank. 
And  rope  and  sail  with  moisture  dank ; 
And*  faces    gleaming    stem   and 

white 
Shine    dimly    in    the    storm-filled 
night. 

By  some  bright  river  far  away. 
Fond  hearts    are    wondering  where 
they  stay 
Who  sleep  along  the  wave-washed 

shore 
And  stormy  reefs  of  Labrador. 


AN  OCTOBER  PICTURE. 

The  purple  grapes  hang  ready  for  the 
kiss 
Of  red  lips  sweeter  than  their  wine ; 
And  'mid  the  turning  leaves   they 
soon  will  miss. 
The  crimson  apples  shine. 
Lazily  through  the  soft  and  sunlit  air 
The  great  haAvks  fly,  and  give  no 
heed 
To  the  sweet  songsters,  that  toward 
the  fair. 
Far  lands  of  summer  speed. 

Along  the  hills  wild  asters  bend  to 
greet 
The  roadside's  wealth  of  golden-rod ; 
And  by  the  fences  the    bright  su- 
machs meet 


Slowly   the  shadows  of    the  clouds 
drift  o'er 
The  hillsides,  clad  in  opal  haze, 
Where  gorgeous  butterflies  seek  the 
rich  store 
Of  flower-sprent  summer  days. 

All  clad  in  dusted  gold,  the  tall  elms 
stand 
Just  in  the  edges  of  the  wood; 
And  near,  the  chestnut  sentinels  the 
land. 
And  shows  its  russet  hood. 

The  maple  flaunts  its  scarlet  banners 
where 
The  marsh  lies  clad  in  shining  mist ; 
The  mountain   oak    shows,    in  the 
clear,  bright  air, 
Its  crown  of  amethyst. 

"Where,  like  a  silver  line,  the  spark- 
ling stream 
Flows    murmuring    through    the 
meadows  brown, 
Amid  the  radiance,  seeming  a  sad 
dream, 
A  sailless  boat  floats  down. 


COMPLETE. 

Like  morning  blooms  that  meet  the 

sun 
With  all  the  fragrant  freshness  won 
From  night's  repose,  and  kiss  of  dew 
"Which  the  bright  radiance  glistens 

through, 
Such  is  the  sweetness  of  thy  lips, 
Where  love  its  sacred  tribute  sips: 
Such  is  the  glory  of  thine  eyes, 
Rich  with  the  soul's  unsaid  replies. 

The  snow  that  crowns  the  mountain 
height,  [white; 

Through  countless  years  of  gleaming 
The  creamy  blooms  of  orchard  trees, 
Full  of  the  melody  of  bees ; 
The  cool,  fresh  sweetness  of  the  sea; 
All  have  a  charm  possessed  by  thee: 
But  each  of  these  has  one  alone, 
Whilst  thou  canst  call  them  all  thine 
own. 


i44 


COLLINS. 


Mortimer   Collins. 


IN    VIEW   OF  DEATH. 

No;  I  shall  pass  into  the  Morning 
Land 
As  now  from  sleep  into  the  life  of 

morn ; 
Live  the  new  life  of  the  new  world, 
unshorn 
Of  the   swift   brain,   the   executing 
hand ; 
See  the  dense  darkness  suddenly 

withdrawn. 
As  when  Orion's  sightless  eyes  dis- 
cerned the  dawn. 


I  shall  behold  it;  I  shall    see   the 
utter 

Glory    of    sunrise  heretofore   un- 
seen, 

Freshening  the  woodland  ways  with 
brighter  green, 
And  calling  into  life  all  wings  that 
flutter. 

All  throats  of  music  and  all  eyes  of 
light, 

And  driving  o'el"  the  verge  the  in- 
tolerable night. 


O   virgin   world  !    O  marvellous  far 

days ! 
No  more  with  dreams  of  grief  doth 

love  grow  bitter,  [glitter 

Nor  trouble  dim  the  lustre  wont  to 

In  happy  eyes.     Decay  alone  decays : 

A  moment  —  death's  dull  sleep  is 

o'er;  and  we 
Drink  the   immortal  morning  air 

Earine. 


LAST  VERSES. 

I  HAVE  been  sitting  alone 

All  day  while  the  clouds  went  by, 

While  moved  the  strength  of  the 
seas, 
While  a  wind  with  a  will  of  his  own, 

A  poet  out  of  the  sky. 

Smote  the  green  harp  of  the  trees. 

Alone,  yet  not  alone. 

For  I  felt,  as  the  gay  wind  whirled. 

As  the  cloudy  sky  grew  clear. 
The  touch  of  our  Father  half-known, 

Who  dwells  at  the  heart  of  the  world, 

Yet  who  is  always  here. 


William   Collins. 


ODE   TO  SIMPLICITY. 

O  THOU,  by  Nature  taught 
To  breathe  her  genuine  thought. 
In  numbers  warmly  pure,  and  sweet- 
ly strong; 
Wlio  first,  on  mountains  wild, 
In  Fancy,  loveliest  child, 
Thy  babe,  or  Pleasure's,  nursed  the 
powers  of  song ! 

Thou,  who,  with  hermit  heart, 
Disdain' St  the  wealth  of  art. 
And  gauds,  and  pageant  weeds,  and 
trailing  pall ; 


But  com'st  a  decent  maid, 
In  Attic  robe  arrayed, 
O  chaste,  unboastful  nymph,  to  thee 
I  call! 


O  sister  meek  of  Truth, 
To  my  admiring  youth. 
Thy  sober  aid  and  native  charms  In- 
fuse ! 
The  flowers  that  sweetest  breathe. 
Though  Beauty  culled  the  wreath, 
Still  ask  thy  hand  to  range  their  or- 
dered hues. 


COLLINS. 


145 


Though  taste,  though  genius,  bless, 
To  some  divine  excess, 
Faints  the  cohl  work  till  thou  Inspire 
the  whole; 
What  each,  what  all  supply, 
May  court,  may  charm,  our  eye ; 
Thou,    only    thou,   canst    raise    the 
meeting  soul ! 

Of  these  let  others  ask, 

To  aid  some  mighty  task, 
I  only  seek  to  find  thy  temperate  vale ; 

Where  oft  my  reed  might  sound 

To  maids  and  shepherds  round. 
And  all  thy  sons,  O  Nature,  learn 
my  tale. 


ODE   TO   THE  BRAVE. 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to 

rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Keturns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould. 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray. 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their 

clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there! 


ON  TRUE    AND  FALSE   TASTE    IN 
MUSIC. 

Discard  soft  nonsense  in  a  slavish 
tongue. 

The  strain  insipid,  and  the  thought 
unknown ; 

From  truth  and  nature  form  the  un- 
erring test ; 

Be  what  is  manly,  chaste,  and  good 
the  best ! 

'Tis  not  to  ape  the  songsters  of  the 
groves, 

Through  all  the  quivers  of  their  wan- 
ton loves ; 


'Tis  not  the  enfeebled  thrill,  or  war- 
bled shake. 
The  heart  can  strengthen,  or  the  soul 

awake ! 
But  where    the  force  of    energy  is 

found. 
When  the  sense  rises  on  the  wings  of 

sound ; 
Wlien  reason,  with  the  charms  of 

music  twined. 
Through  the  enraptured  ear  informs 

the  mind ; 
Bids  generous  love  or  soft  compassion 

glow. 
And  forms  a  tuneful  Paradise  below ! 


THE  PASSIONS. 
AN  ODE   FOR  MUSIC. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,    was 

young, 
Wliile  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell. 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell. 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possest  beyond  the  Muse's  painting: 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined: 
Till    once,   'tis  said,  when  all  were 

fired. 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched    her  instruments  of 

sound : 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 
Each  (for  Madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would    prove    his    own    expressive 

power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 
E'en   at  the    sound    himself    had 
made. 

Next  Anger  rushed ;  his  eyes  on  fire, 
In    lightnings     owned    his    secret 
stings ; 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre. 
And  swept  with  hurried  hands  tho 
strings. 


146 


COLLINS. 


With  woful  measures  wan  Despair 
Low,   sullen  sounds  his  grief  be- 
guiled ; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas 
wild! 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair. 
What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  dis- 
tance hail! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  pro- 
long; 
And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the 
vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all 
the  song; 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she 

chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard 
at  every  close. 
And    Hope    enchanted  smiled,   and 

waved  her  golden  hair. 
And  longer  had  she  sung ;  —  but  with 
a  frown. 
Revenge  impatient  rose ; 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword,  in 
thunder,  down; 
And  with  a  withering  look. 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took. 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread. 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full 
of  woe ! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious 
heat; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary 
pause  between, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied. 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered 
mien. 
While  each    strained   ball   of    sight 
seemed  bursting  from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers.    Jealousy,  to  nought 
were  fixei; 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ; 

Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song 
was  mixed ; 

And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  rav- 
ing called  on  Hate. 


With  eyei?  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired ; 
And,  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 
In  notes   by    distance    made    more 

sweet. 
Poured  througli  the  mellow  horn  her 
pensive  soul: 
And,    dashing     soft    from    rocks 

around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound ; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  min- 
gled measures  stole. 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with 
fond  delay. 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  Peace, and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  O !  how  altered  was  its  spright- 

lier  tone. 
When    Cheerfulness,     a    nymph    of 
healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning 
dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and 
thicket  rung. 
The    hunter's  call,  to    Faun  and 
Dryad  known ! 
The  oak-crowned  Sisters,  and  their 
cliaste-eyed  Queen, 
Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys  were  seen. 
Peeping    from   forth    their  alleys 
green : 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 
And  Sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his 
beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial: 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing. 
First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand 
addrest ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening 
viol, 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he 
loved  the  best ; 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard 
the  strain 
They  saw,   in  Tempe's  vale,   her 

native  maids, 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades. 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing. 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the 
strings, 


COLLINS. 


147 


Love  framed  m  illi  Mirth  a  gay  fan- 
tastic round; 

Loose  wore  her  tresses  seen,  her 
zone  unbound; 

And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air 
repay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy 


O  Music !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid! 
Why,  goddess!  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower. 
You     learned    an     all-commanding 

power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymph  f  ndeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard; 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art  ? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlik(!  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page  — 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale. 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  pre- 
vail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard 

age; 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound  — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece: 
Keturn  in  all  tliy  simple  state! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate ! 


ODE   TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten   stop  or  pastoral 

song. 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy 
modest  ear, 
Like  thy  own  brawling  springs, 
Thy  springs  and  dying  gales; 

O  nymph   reserved,  while  now  the 

bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy 
skirts. 
With  brede  ethereal  wove 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 


Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the 

weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on 
leathern  wing; 
Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight 

path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless 
hum : 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 
To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy 

darkening  vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness 
suit; 
As,  musing  slow,  1  hail 
Thy  genial  loved  return ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star,    arising 
shows 

His  paly  circlet, — at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes 

her  brows  with  sedge. 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and, 
lovelier  still, 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then    let    me  rove  some  wild  and 

heathy  scene; 
Or  find  some  ruin,  'midst  its  dreary 
dells. 
Whose  w  alls  more  awful  nod 
By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driv- 
ing rain 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the 
hut. 
That,  from  the  moim tain's  side. 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discov- 
ered spires; 
And    bear's    their   simple  bell,  and 
marks  o'er  all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil. 


148 


COLLINS. 


While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers 

as  oft  he  wont, 
And    bathe    thy    breathing    tresses, 
meekest  Eve ! 
While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn    fills  thy  lap 

with  leaves; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troub- 
lous air. 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 
sihall    Fancy,    Friendship,    Science, 
smiling  Peace, 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  love  thy  favorite  name! 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THOMSON. 

[The  scene  is  supposed  to  lie   on    the 
Thames,  near  Richmond.] 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies. 
Where  slowly  v/inds  the  stealing 
wave ; 
The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous 
rise 
To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 

His  airy  harp  shall  now  be  laid. 
That    he,    whose    heart    in    sorrow 
bleeds, 
May  love  through  life  the  soothing 
shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger 
here. 
And  while  its  sounds  at  distance 
swell. 
Shall  sadly  seem  in  Pity's  ear 
To    hear  the  woodland    pilgrim's 
knell. 

Remembrance  oft    shall  haunt    the 
shore 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths 
is  drest. 


And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft,  as  Ease  and  Health  retire 

To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep. 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening 
spire 
And    'mid    the    varied    landscape 
weep. 

But  thou,  who  own'st  that  earthly 
bed. 
Ah !  what  will  every  dirge  avail ; 
Or  tears,  which  Love  and  Pity  shed, 
That   mourn   beneath  the  gliding 
sail? 

Yet  lives  there  one  whose  heedless 
eye 
Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glim- 
mering near  ? 
With  him,  sweet  bard,  may  Fancy  die, 
And  Joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen 
tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  at- 
tend, 
Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill's 
side, 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried 
friend ! 

And  see,  the  fairy  valleys  fade; 

Dun  night  has  veiled  the  solemn 
view ! 
Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade. 

Meek  Nature's  child,  again  adieu! 

The  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 
Thy  life,   shall  mourn    thy  early 
doom ; 
Their  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall 
dress, 
With  simple  hands,  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,   long,  thy  stone  and  pointed 

clay 

Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  eyes : 

"O  vales  and  wild  woods!"  shall  he 

say, 

' '  In  yonder  grave  your  Druid  lies  I " 


COOK, 


149 


Eliza  Cook. 


SONO   OF  THE  HEMPSEED. 

Ay,  scatter  me  well,  'tis  a  moist  spring 
day; 
Wide  and  far  be  the  hempseed  sown : 
And  bravely  I'll  stand  on  the  autumn 
land, 
When  the  rains  have  dropped  and 
the  winds  have  blown 
Man  sliall  carefully  gather  me  up; 
His  hand  shall  rule  and  my  form 
shall  change; 
Not  as  a  mate  for  the  purple  of  state, 
Nor  into  aught  that  is  "rich  and 
strange." 
But  I  will  come  forth  all  woven  and 
spun, 
With  my  fine  threads  curled  in  ser- 
pent length ; 
And  the  fire-wrought  chain  and  the 
lion's  thick  mane 
Shall  be  rivalled  by  me  in  mighty 
strength. 
I  have  many  a  place  in  the  busy  world. 
Of  triumph  and  fear,  of  sorrow  and 
joy; 
I  carry  the  freeman's  flag  unfurled; 
I  am  linked  to  childhood's  darling 
toy. 
Then  scatter  me  wide,  and  hackle  me 

well ; 
For  a  varied  tale  can  the  hempseed 
tell. 

Bravely  I  swing  in  the  anchor-ring, 
Where  the  foot  of  the  proud  man 
Cometh  not; 
Where  the  dolphin  leaps  and  the  sea- 
weed creeps 
O'er  the  rifted  sand  and  the  coral 
grot. 
Down,  down  below  I  merrily  go 
When  the  huge  ship  takes  her  rock- 
ing rest : 
The  waters  may  chafe,  but  she  dwell- 
eth  as  safe 
As  the  young  bird  in  its  woodland 
nest. 
1  wreathe  the  spars  of  that  same  fair 
ship,  (about: 

Where  the  gallant  sea-hearts  cling 


Springing  aloft  with  a  song  on  the  lip, 
Putting  their  faith  in  the  cordage 

stout, 
I  am  true  when  the  blast  sways  the 

giant  mast. 
Straining  and  stretched  in  a  nor'- 

west  gale, 
I  abide  with  the  bark,  in  the  day  and 

the  dark. 
Lashing  the  hammock  and  reefing 

the  sail. 
Oh  !  the  billows  and  I  right  fairly 

cope. 
And  the  wild  tide  is  stemmed  by  the 

cable  rope. 

The  sunshine  falls  on  a  new-made 
grave,  — 
The  funeral  train  is  long  and  sad ; 
The  poor  man  has  come  to  the  hap- 
piest home 
And  easiest  pillow  he  ever  had, 
I  shall  be  there  to  lower  him  down 

Gently  into  his  narrow  bed ; 
I  shall  be  tliere,  the  work  to  share, 
To  guard  his  feet,  and  cradle  his 
head. 

Oh !  the  hempseed  cometli  in  doleful 

shape, 
With  the  mourner's  cloak  and  sable 

crape. 

Harvest  shall  spread  with  its  glitter- 
ing wheat, 
The  barn  shall  be  opened,  the  stack 
shall  be  piled;    . 
Ye  shall  see  the  ripe  grain  shining 
out  from  the  wain, 
And  the  berry-stained  arms  of  the 
gleaner-child. 
Heap  on,  heap  on,  till  the  wagon- 
ribs  creak. 
Let  the  sheaves  go  towering  to  the 
sky; 
Up  with  the  shock   till  the   broad 
wheels  rock. 
Fear  not  to  carry  the  rich  freight 
high ; 
For  I  will  infold  the  tottering  gold, 
I  will  fetter  the  rolling  load; 


150 


COOK. 


Not  an  ear  shall  escape  my  binding 
hold, 
On  the  furrowed  field  or  jolting 
road. 

Oh !  the  hempseed  hath  a  fair  place 
to  fill, 

With  the  harvest  band  on  the  corn- 
crowned  hill. 


AFTER  A  MOTHER'S  DEATH. 

They  told  me  in  my  earlier  years, 
Life  was  a  dark  and  tangled  web; 

A  gloomy  sea  of  bitter  tears, 
Where  Sorrow's  influx  had  no  ebb. 

But  such  was  vainly  taught  and  said, 
My  laugh  rang  out  with  joyous  tone ; 

The    woof    possessed    one    brilliant 
thread 
Of  rainbow  colors,  all  my  own. 

I  boasted — till  a  mother's  grave 
Was  heaped  and  sodded  —  then  I 
found 

The  sunshine  stricken  from  the  wave. 
And  all  the  golden  thread  unwound. 

Preach  on  who  will  —  say  "Life  is 
sad," 
I'll  not  refute  as  once  I  did; 
You'll  find  the  eye  that  beamed  so 
glad. 
Will  hide  a  tear  beneath  its  lid. 

Preach  on  of  woe ;  the  time  hath  been 
I'd  praise  the  world  with  shadeless 
brow : 

The  dream  is  broken  —  I  have  seen 
A  mother  die:  —  I'm  silent  now. 


GANGING  TO  AND  GANGING  FRAE. 

Nae  star  was  glintin  out  aboon. 
The  cluds   were  dark  and  hid  the 

moon ; 
The  whistling  gale  was  in  my  teeth. 
And  round  me  was  the  deep  snaw 

wreath; 


But  on  I  went  the  dreary  mile, 
And  sung  right  cantie  a'  the  while 
I  gae  my  plaid  a  closer  fauld ; 
My  hand  was  warm,  my  heart  was 

bauld, 
I  didna  heed  the  storm  and  cauld, 

While  ganging  to  my  Katie. 

But  when  I  trod  the  same  way  back. 
It  seemed  a  sad  and  waefu'  track; 
The  brae  and  glen  were  lone  and  lang; 
I  didna  sing  my  cantie  sang; 
I  felt  how  sharp  the  sleet  did  fa'. 
And  couldna  face  the  wind  at  a'. 
Oh,  sic  a  change !  how  could  it  be  ? 
I  ken  fu'  well,  and  sae  may  ye  — 
The  sunshine  had  been  gioom  to  me 
While  ganging/rae  my  Katie. 


MY  OLD  STRAW  HAT. 

Fareavell,  old  friend,  — we  part  at 

last; 
Fruits,  flowers,  and  summer,  all  are 

past. 
And  when  the  beech-leaves  bid  adieu, 
My  old  straw  hat  must  vanish  too. 
We've  been  together  many  an  hour. 
In  grassy  dell  and  garden  bower; 
And  plait  and  riband,  scorched  and 

torn, 
Proclaim  how  well  thou  hast  been 

worn. 
We've  had  a  time,  gay,  bright,  and 

long; 
So  let  me  sing  a  grateful  song,  — 
And  if  one  bay-leaf  falls  to  me, 
I'll  stick  it  firm  and  fast  in  thee, 

My  old  straw  hat. 

Thy  flapping  shade  and  flying  strings 
Are    worth    a    thousand    close-tied 

things. 
I  love  thy  easy-fitting  crown. 
Thrust    lightly   back,   or    slouching 

down. 
I  cannot  brook  a  muffled  ear. 
When    lark    and    blackbird    whistle 

near; 
And  dearly  like  to  meet  and  seek 
The    fresh   wind    with    unguarded 

cheek. 


COOKE. 


151 


Tossed   in   a   tree,   thou 'It  bear  no 

harm ; 
Fhmg  on  the  moss,  thou'lt  lose  no 

chaim ; 
Like  many  a  real  friend  on  eartli, 
Kougli  usage  only  proves  thy  worth, 
My  old  straw  hat. 

Farewell,  old  friend,  thy  work  is  done ; 
The  misty  clouds  shut  out  the  sun; 
The  grapes  are  plucked,  the  hops  are 

^  otf, 
The  woods  are  stark,  and  I  must  doff 
My   old    straw    hat  —  but    "bide   a 

wee," 
Fair  skies  we've  seen,  yet  we  may  see 
Skies  full  as  fair  as  those  of  yore, 
And  then  we'll  wander  forth  once 

more. 
Farewell,  till  drooping  bluebells  blow, 
And  violets  stud  the  warm  hedgerow; 
Farewell,  till  daisies  deck  the  plain  — 
Farewell,  till  spring  days  come  again — 
My  old  straw  hat. 


SONG   OF  THE  UGLY  MAIDEN. 

Oh  !  the  world  gives  little  of  love  or 
light. 

Though  my  spirit  pants  for  much ; 
For  1  have  no  beauty  for  the  sight, 

No  riches  for  the  touch. 
I  hear  men  sing  o'er  the  flowing  cup 

Of  woman's  magic  spell; 
And  vows  of  zeal  they  offer  up, 

And  eloquent  talcs  they  tell. 
They  bravely  swear  to  guard  the  fair 

With  strong  protectiug  arms ; 


But  will  they  worship  woman's  worth 

Unblent  with  woman's  charms? 
Xo!  ah,  no!  'tis  little  they  prize 
Crook-backed  forms  and  rayless  eyes. 

Oh!  'tis  a  saddening  thing  to  be 

A  poor  and  ugly  one; 
In  the  sand  Time  puts  in  his  glass 
for  me, 

Few  golden  atoms  run. 
For  my  drawn  lids  bear  no  shadowing 
fringe; 

My  locks  are  thin  and  dry; 
My  teeth  wear  not  the  rich  pearl  tinge. 

Nor  my  lips  the  henna  dye. 
I  know  full  well  I  have  nought  of 
grace 

That  maketh  woman  "divine;" 
The  wooer's  praise  and  doting  gaze 

Have  never  yet  been  mine. 
Where'er  I  go  all  eyes  will  shun 
The  loveless  mien  of  the  ugly  one. 

Would  that  I  had  passed  away 

Ere  I  knew  that  I  was  born; 
For  I  stand  in  the  blessed  light  of  day 

Like  a  weed  among  the  corn,  — 
The  black  rock  in  the  wide  blue  sea,  — 

The  snake  in  the  jungle  green : 
Oh!  who  will  stay  in  the  fearful  way 

Where  such  ugly  things  are  seen? 
Yet  mine  is  the  fate  of  lonelier  state 

Than  that  of  the  snake  or  rock ; 
For  those  who  behold  me  in  their 
path 

Not  only  shun,  but  mock. 
O  Ugliness!  thy  desolate  pain 
Had  served  to  set  the  stamp  on  CainI 


Philip  Pendleton   Cooke. 

FLORENCE   VANE. 


I  LOVED  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Fl  rence  Vane; 
My  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

Hath  come  again; 
I  renew,  in  my  fond  vision. 

My  heart's  dear  pain  — 
My  hopes,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 


The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old 
"Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told  — 
That  spot —  the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain  — 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane. 


152 


COOKE. 


Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

In  their  prime; 

Thy  disdain, 

Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Of  sweetest  rhyme; 

Florence  Vane. 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

AVithout  a  main. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

By  young  graves  weep; 

Florence  Vane. 

The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep. 

But,  fairest,  coldest  wonder! 

May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Thy  glorious  clay 

Never  wane 

Lieth  the  green  sod  under  ~ 
Alas,  the  day  I 

Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane! 

Rose  Terry  Cooke. 


THE  JCONOCLAST. 

A  THOUSAND  years  shall  come  and 
go, 
A  thousand  years  of  night  and  day ; 
And  man,  through  all  their  changing 
show, 
His  tragic  drama  still  shall  play. 

Ruled  by  some  fond  ideal's  power, 

Cheated  by  passion  or  despair, 
Still  shall  he  waste  life's  trembling 
hour. 
In     worship    vain,     and     useless 
prayer. 

Ah!    where  are  they  who  rose    in 
might, 
Who    fired    the    temple    and    the 
shrine. 
And  hurled,  through  earth's  chaotic 
night. 
The  helpless  gods  it  deemed   di- 
vine ? 

Cease,  longing  soul,  thy  vain  desire! 

What  idol,  in  its  stainless  prime. 
But  falls,  untouche'd  of  axe  or  fire, 

Before  the  steady  eyes  of  Time  ? 

He  looks,  and  lo!  our  altars  fall, 
The  shrine  reveals  its  gilded  clay, 

With  decent  hands  we  spread  the 
pall, 
And  cold,  with  wisdom,  glide  away. 


O,  where  were  courage,  faith,  and 
truth. 
If  man  went  wandering  all  his  day 
In  golden  clouds  of  love  and  youth. 
Nor  knew  that  both  his  steps  be- 
tray ? 

Come,  Time,  while  here  we  sit  and 
wait. 
Be  faithful,  spoiler,  to  thy  trust! 
No  death  can  further  desolate 
The  soul  that  knows  its  god  was 
dust. 


TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

Darlings  of  the  forest! 
Blossoming,  alone, 
When  Earth's  grief  is  sorest 
For  her  jewels  gone  — 
Ere  the  last  snow-drift  melts,  your 
tender  buds  have  blown. 

Tinged  with  color  faintly, 
Like  the  morning  sky, 
Or,  more  pale  and  saintly. 
Wrapped  in  leaves  ye  lie  — 
Even  as  children  sleep  in  faith's  sim.* 
plicity. 

There  the  wild  wood-robin, 
Hymns  your  solitude; 


COOLER  I TH. 


153 


And  the  rain  comes  sobbing 
Through  the  budding  wood, 
While  the  low  south  wind  sighs,  but 
dare  not  be  more  rude. 

Were  your  pure  lips  fashioned 
Out  of  air  and  dew  — 
Starlight  unimpassloned. 
Dawn's  most  tender  hue, 
And  scented  by  the  woods  that  gath- 
ered sweets  for  you  ? 

Fairest  and  most  lonely, 
From  the  world  apart; 
Made  for  beauty  only. 
Veiled  from  Nature's  heart 
With    such    unconscious    grace    as 
makes  the  dream  of  Art! 

Were  not  mortal  sorrow 
An  immortal  shade, 
Then  would  1  to-morrow 
Such  a  flower  be  made. 
And  live  irt  the  dear  woods  where  my 
lost  childhood  played. 


THEN. 


I  GIVE  thee  treasures  hour  by  hour, 
That  old-time  princes  asked  in  vain. 
And  pined  for,  in  their  useless  power. 
Or  died  of  passion's  eager  pain. 


r  give  thee  love  as  God  gives  light, 
Aside  from  merit,  or  from  prayer, 
Rejoicing  in  its  own  delight, 
And  freer  than  the  lavish  air. 


I  give  thee  prayers,  like  jewels  strung 
On  golden  threads  of  hope  and  fear; 
And   tenderer    thoughts    than    ever 

hung 
In  a  sad  angel's  pitying  tear. 

As  earth  pours  freely  to  the  sea 
Her  thousand  streams  of  wealth  un- 
told, 
So  flows  my  silent  life  to  thee. 
Glad  that  its  very  sands  are  gold. 

What  care  I  for  thy  carelessness  ? 
I  give  from  depths  that  overflow. 
Regardless  that  their  power  to  bless 
Thy  spirit  cannot  sound  or  know. 

Far  lingering  on  a  distant  dawn 

My  triumph  shines,  more  sweet  than 
late; 

When  from  these  mortal  mists  with- 
drawn. 

Thy  Iieart  sliall  know  me  —  I  can 
wait. 


INA    D.    COOLBRITH. 


IN  BLOSSOM  TIME. 

It's  O  ray  heart,  my  heart, 
To  be  out  in  llie  sun  and  sing! 

To  sing  and  shout  in  the  fields  about, 
In  tlie  balm  and  the  blossoming. 

Sing  loud,  O  bird  in  the  tree; 

O  bird,  sing  loud  in  the  sky, 
And  honey-bees,  biacken  the  clover 
bed  — 

There  are  none  of  you  glad  as  I. 

The  leaves  laugh  low  in  the  wind. 
Laugh  low,  with  the  vdnd  at  play; 


And  the  odorous  call  of  the  flowers  all 
Entices  my  soul  away! 

For  oh,  but  the  world  is  fair,  is  fair  — 
And  oh,  but  the  world  is  sweet! 

I  will  out  in  the  gold  of  the  blossom- 
ing mould, 
And  sit  at  the  Master's  feet. 

And  the  love  my  heart  would  speak 
I  will  fold  in  the  lily's  rim. 

That  the  lips  of  the  blossoms,  more 
pure  and  meek. 
May  offer  it  up  to  Him. 


154 


COTTON. 


Then  sing  in  the  hedgerow  green,  O 
thrush, 
O  skylark,  sing  in  the  blue: 
Sing  loud,  sing  clear,  that  the  King 
may  hear. 
And  my  soul  shall  sing  with  you! 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEF. 

So  fair  the  sun  rose  yestermorn. 
The  mountain  cliffs  adorning; 

The  golden  tassels  of  the  com 
Danced  in  the  breath  of  morning; 

The  cool,  clear  stream  that  runs  be- 
fore. 
Such  happy  words  was  saying, 


And  in  the  open  cottage  door 
My  pretty  babe  was  playing. 

Aslant  the  sill  a  sunbeam  lay: 
1  laughed  in  careless  pleasure, 

To  see  his  little  hand  essay 
To  grasp  the  shining  treasure. 

To-day  no  shafts  of  golden  flame 

Across  the  sill  are  lying; 
To-day  I  call  my  baby's  name, 

And  hear  no  lisped  replying; 
To-day  —  ah,  baby  mine,  to-day  - 

God  holds  thee  in  his  keeping! 
And  yet  I  weep,  as  one  pale  ray 

Breaks  in  upon  thy  sleeping  — 
I  weep  to  see  its  shining  bands 

Reach,  with  a  fond  endeavor. 
To  where  the  little  restless  hands 

Are  crossed  in  rest  forever  1 


Charles  Cotton. 


[From  Retirement^] 
IN  THE   QUIET  OF  NATURE. 

Farewell,  thou  busy  world,  and 
may 
We  never  meet  again ; 
Here  I  can  eat,   and    sleep,   and 
pray,  [day. 

And  do  more  good  in  one  short 
Than  he  who  his  whole  age  out- 
wears 
Upon  the  most  conspicuous  theatres. 
Where  nought  but  vanity  and  vice 
appears. 

Good  God !  how  sweet  are  all  things 
here ! 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear! 

How  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie! 

Lord !  what  good  hours  do  we  keep ! 

How  quietly  we  sleep ! 

What  peace,  what  unanimity ! 

How  innocent  from  the  lewd  fashion, 

Is  all  our  business,  all  our  recreation ! 

Dear    solitude,    the    soul's    best 
friend. 
That  man  acquainted  with  himself 
dost  make. 


And  all  his  Maker's  wonders  to  in- 
tend. 
With  thee  I  here  converse    at 

will, 
And  would  be  glad  to  do  so  still, 
For  it  is  thou  alone  that  keep'st  the 
soul  awake. 

How  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 

Is  it,  alone 
To  read,  and  meditate,  and  write, 
By  none  offended,  and  offending 
none ! 
To  walk,  ride,  sit,  or  sleep  at  one's 

own  ease; 
And,   pleasing   a    man's  self,   none 
other  to  displease. 


CONTENTATION. 

I  CAN  go  nowhere  but  I  meet 
With  malcontents  and  mutineers, 

As  if  in  life  was  nothing  sweet, 
And   we  must  blessings    reap   in 
tears. 


COWLEF. 


155 


Titles  and  wealth  are  fortune's  toils, 

Wherewith    the    vain   themselves 

ensnare : 

The  great  are  proud    of   borrowed 

spoils, 

The  miser's  plenty  breeds  his  care. 

The  drudge  who  would  all  get,  all 
save, 
Like  a  brute  beast,  both  feeds  and 
lies; 
Prone    to    the    earth,  he   digs   his 
grave. 
And  in  the  very  labor  dies. 

Excess  of  ill-got,  ill-kept  pelf 

Does  only  death  and  danger  breed ; 
Whilst   one    rich  worldling  starves 
himself 
With  what  would  thousand  others 
feed. 

Nor  is  he  happier  than  these. 
Who,  in  a  moderate  estate, 

Where  he  might  safely  live  at  ease, 
Has  lusts  that  are  immoderate. 

Nor  is  he  happy  who  is  trim. 
Tricked  up  in  favors  of  the  fair, 

Mirrors,    with    every    breath    made 

dim,  [snare. 

Birds,    caught    in    every    wanton 

Woman,  man's  greatest  woe  or  bliss. 
Does  oftener  far  than  serve,  en- 
slave ; 

And  with  the  magic  of  a  kiss  [save. 
Destroys  whom  she  was  made  to 


There  are  no  ills  but  what  we  make 
By  giving  shapes  and    names  to 
things, — 

Which  is  the  dangerous  mistake 
That  causes  all  our  sufferings. 

We   call    that    sickness    which    is 
health, 

That  persecution  which  is  grace, 
That  poverty  which  is  true  wealth. 

And  that  dishonor  which  is  praise. 

Alas !  our  time  is  here  so  short 
That    in  what    state  soe'er    t  is 
spent. 

Of  joy  or  woe,  does  not  import, 
Provided  it  be  innocent. 

But  we  may  make  it  pleasant  too, 
If  we  will  take  our  measures  right, 

And  not  what  heaven  has  done  undo 
By  an  unruly  appetite. 

The  world  is  full  of  beaten  roads, 
But  yet  so  slippery  withal. 

That  where  one  walks  secure,  'tis 
odds 
A  hundred  and  a  hundred  fall. 

Untrodden  paths  are  then  the  best. 
Where  the  frequented  are  unsure; 

And  he  comes  soonest  to  his  rest 
Whose  journey  has  been  most  se- 
cure. 

It  is  content  alone  that  makes 
Our  pilgrimage  a  pleasure  here ; 

And  who  buys  sorrow  cheapest  takes 
An  ill  commodity  too  dear. 


Abraham 

OF  MYSELF. 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means 

may  lie  [bigh. 

Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too 

Some  honor  I  would  have. 
Not  from  great  deed3,but  good  alone; 
The    unknown    are    better  than   ill 
known : 
Rumor  can  ope  the  grave. 


Cowley. 

Acquaintance    I    would    have,    but 

when't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice, 

of  friends. 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain 

the  liglit, 
And  sleep  as  undisturbed  as  death, 

the  night. 
My  house  a  cottage  more 


156 


COWLEY. 


•f  han  palace ;  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With  Nature's  hand,  not  Art's;  and 

pleasures  yield, 
Horace    might    envy  in  his  Sabine 

field. 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading 
space ; 

For  he  that  runs  it  well  twice  runs 
his  race. 
And  in  this  true  delight, 

These  unbought  sports,  this  happy 
state, 

I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish,  my  fate; 
But  boldly  say  each  night, 

To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  dis- 
play, 

Or  in  clouds  hide  them ;  I  have  lived 
to-day. 


ON  THE  SHORTNESS    OF  LIFE. 

Mark  that  swift  arrow,  how  it  cuts 

the  air, 

How  it  outruns  thy  following  eye ! 

Use  all  persuasions  now,  and  try 

If  thou  canst  call  it  back  or  stay  it 

there. 

That  way  it  went ;  but  thou  shalt 

find 
No  track  is  left  behind. 

Fool!  'tis  thy  life,  and  the  fond  arch- 
er, thou! 
Of    all    the    time    thou'st    shot 

away, 
I'll  bid  thee  fetch  but  yesterday, 
And  it  shall  be  too  hard  a  task  to  do. 
Beside  repentance,   what    canst 

find 
That  it  hath  left  behind  ? 

But  his  past  life,  who  without  grief 
can  see, 
Who  never  thinks  his  end  too 
near. 


But    says    to    Fame,    Thou   art 

mine  heir, — 
That    man    extends    life's    natural 

brevity : 
This  is,  this  is  the  only  way 
To  outlive  Nestor  in  a  day. 


[From  Reason.] 
REASON  AN  AID  TO  REVELATION. 

Though    Reason    cannot    through 
Faith's  mysteries  see, 
It  sees  tliat  there  and  such  there  be, 
Leads  to  heaven's  door,   and  then 
does  humbly  keep, 
And  then  through  chinks  and  key- 
holes peep. 
Though  it,  like  Moses,  by  a  sad  com- 
mand 
Must  not  come  into  the  Holy  Land, 
Yet  thither  it  infallibly  doei,  guide, 
And  from  afar  'tis  all  descried. 


[From  Friendship  in  Absence.] 

DISTANCE     NO    BARRIER    TO   THE 
SOUL. 

When  chance  or  cruel  business  parts 

us  two, 
What  do  our  souls,  I  wonder,  do  ? 
Whilst  sleep  does  our  dull  bodies  tie, 
Methinks  at  home  they  should  not 

stay 
Content  with  dreams, — but  boldly  fly 
Abroad,  and   meet  each   other  half 

the  way. 

'Twere  an  ill  world,  I'll  swear,  for 

everj'  friend. 
If  distance  could  their  union  end: 
But  love  itself  does  far  advance 
Above  the  power  of  time  and  spa^e. 
It  scorns  such  outward  circumstance, 
His  time  's  forever,   everywhere,  his 

place. 


COWPER. 


157 


William   Cowper. 


LIGHT  SHINING   OUT  OF 
DARKNESS. 

God  moves  in  a  mysieriDr:.:  way 

His  wonders  to  per"crm; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  His  bright  designs, 

And  works  His  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take, 
The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 

Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 
In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 
But  trust  Him  for  His  grace ; 

Behind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast. 

Unfolding  every  hour; 
Tlie  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste. 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 
And  scan  His  work  in  vain: 

God  is  His  own  Interpreter. 
And  He  will  make  it  plain. 


THE  POPLAR  FIELD. 

The  poplars  are  felled;  farewell  to 

the  shade. 
And    the  whispering  sound  of  the 

cool  colonnade! 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in 

the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image 

receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsr.d  since  I 

fir.«t  took  a  view 
Of  juc»y  favotite  field,  ar^d   the  bank 

wLeie  they  grew, 


And  now  in  the   grass  behold  they 

are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once 

lent  me  a  shade ! 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  re- 
treat. 

Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen 
from  the  heat. 

And  the  scene  where  his  melody 
charmed  me  before 

Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing 
ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive   years    are    all  hasting 

away. 
And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as 

they. 
With  a  turf  on  my  breast,  and  a 

stone  at  my  head. 
Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in 

its  stead. 

'Tis  a  sight  to  engage  me,  if  any- 
thing can, 

To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures 
of  man ; 

Though  his  life  be  a  dream,  his  en- 
joyments, I  see, 

Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than 
he. 


[From  The  Task.] 

APOSTROPHE    TO   POPULAR 
APPLA  USE. 

O  POPULAR  applause!  what  heart 

of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing 

charms  ? 
The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent 

need 
Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest 

gales ; 
But  swelled  into  a  gust  —  who  then, 

alas! 


158 


COWFER. 


With  all  his  canvas  set,  and  inexpert, 

And  tlierefore  heedless,  can  vvitli- 
stand  thy  power  ? 

J'raise  from  the  rivelled  lips  of  tooth- 
less, bald 

Decrepitude,  and  in  the  looks  of 
lean 

And  craving  poverty,  and  in  the  how 

Respectful  of  the  smutched  artificer, 

Is  oft  too  welcome,  and  may  much 
disturb 

The  bias  of  the-  purpose.  How 
much  more 

Poured  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and 
polite, 

In  language  soft  as  adoration 
breathes  ? 

Ah,  spare  your  idol !  think  him  hu- 
man still; 

Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has 
frailties  too; 

Dote  not  too  much,  nor  spoil  what  ye 
admire. 


[From  The  Task.] 
THE  FREEDOM  OF  THE   GOOD. 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth 

makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.     There's 

not  a  cliain 
That  hellish  foes  confederate  for  his 

haiTQ 
Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts 

it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his 

green  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor  perhaps, 

compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter 

in  his  siglit. 
Calls  the  delightful  sceneiy  all  his 

own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  val- 
leys his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers. 

Yes  —  ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye 

tliat  reap 
The  loaded  coil,  and  ye  may  waste 

much  good 


In  senseless  riot;  but  ye  will  not  find 

In  feast  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or 
dance, 

A  liberty  like  his,  who  unimpeached 

Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's 
wrong. 

Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's 
work. 

And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours,  than 
you. 

He  is  indeed  a  freeman ;  free  by  birth 

Of  no  mean  city,  planned  or  e'er  the 
hills 

Were  built,  the  fountains  opened,  or 
the  sea 

With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of 
waves. 

His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every 
state ; 

And  no  condition  of  this  changeful 
life, 

So  manifold  in  'cares,  whose  every 
day 

Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it 
less: 

For  he  has  wings  that  neither  sick- 
ness, pain, 

ISTor  penury  can  cripple  or  confine. 

No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads 
them  there 

With  ease,  and  is  at  large.  The  op- 
pressor holds 

His  body  bound,  but  knows  not 
what  a  range 

His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a 
chain. 

And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  at- 
tempt 

Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in 
whom  he  dwells. 


\From  The  Task.] 
THE    WINTER'S  EVENING. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shut- 
tei-s  fast. 

Let  fall  the  curtains,  ^vheel  the  sofa 
round. 

And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud- 
hissing  urn 

Throv?  np  a  steamy  column,  and 
vL-^  oups, 


COWPER. 


159 


That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on 

each. 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 
Not  such  his  evening,  who  with  shin- 
ing face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and, 

squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow-points  through 

both  his  sides, 
Outscokis  the  ranting  actor  on  the 

stage: 
Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his 

feet  throb, 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon 

the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage, 
Or    placemen,   all    tranquillity    and 

smiles. 
This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work! 
Which  not  even  critics  criticize;  that 

holds 
Inquisitive  attention,  while  I  read. 
Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which 

the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear 

to  break; 
What  is  it  but  a  map  of  busy  life, 
Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns? 

'Tis  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes 

of  retreat. 
To  peep  at  such  a  world ;  to  see  the 

stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the 

crowd ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through 

all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying 

sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  the  uninjured 

ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at 

ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem 

advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal 

height. 
That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from 

them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns 

round 
With  all  its  generations;  I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.    The  sound 

of  w  ar 


Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.    1  mourn 

the  pride 
And  avarice,  that  make  man  a  wolf 

to  man; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen 

throats. 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of 

his  heart. 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the 

sound. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flower  to  flower,  so  he  from 

land  to  land ; 
The  manners,  ctistoms,  policy,  of  all 
Pay  contribution    to    the    store    he 

gleans ; 
He  sucks  intelligence  in  every  clime. 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep 

research 
At  his  return, —  a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his 

deck, 
Ascend    his    topmast,    through    his 

•     peering  eyes 
Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred 

heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  es- 
capes ; 
While  fancy,    like  the  finger  of    a 

clock. 
Runs  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at 

home. 

0  winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year. 
Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet   like 

ashes  filled. 

Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips, 
thy  cheeks 

Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with 
other  snows 

Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead 
wrapped  in  clouds, 

A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and 
thy  throne 

A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels. 

But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slip- 
pery way, 

1  love    thee,   all    unlovely  as    thou 

seem' St, 
And  dreaded    as    thou    art!    Thou 

hold' St  the  sun 
A    prisoner  in  the    yet  undawning 

east, 


160 


COW  PER. 


Shortening  his  journey  between  morn 
and  noon, 

And  huiTying  him,  impatient  of  his 
stay, 

Down  to  the  rosy  west;  but  kindly 
still 

Compensating  his  loss  with  added 
hours 

Of  social  converse  and  instructive 
ease. 

And  gathering  at  short  notice,  in  one 
group 

The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing 
thought. 

Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and 
its  cares. 

I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  de- 
lights, 

Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  hap- 
piness. 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly 
roof 

Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the 
hours 

Of  long  uninterrupted  evening,  know. 

No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before 
these  gates ; 

No  powdered  pert  proficient  in  the 
art 

Of  sounding  an  alarm  assaults  these 
doors 

Till  the  street  rings;  no  stationary 
steeds 

Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heed- 
less of  the  sound. 

The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and 
quake : 

But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy 
task. 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted 
flower. 

Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy 
lawn, 

Unfolds  its  bosom;  buds,  and  leaves, 
and  sprigs. 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  dis- 
posed, 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair; 

A  wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  of  flow- 
ers, that  blow 

With  most  success  when  all  besides 
decay. 

The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by 
one 


Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the 
rest ; 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of 
sweet  sounds 

The  touch  from  many  a  trembling 
chord  shakes  out; 

And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet 
distinct, 

And  in  the  charming  strife  trium- 
phant still, 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener 
edge 

On  female  industry:  the  threaded 
steel 

Flies  swiftly,  and  unf elt  the  task  pro- 
ceeds. 


IFrom  The  Task.] 
MERCY   TO  AXIMALS. 

I  WOULD  not  enter  on  my  list  of 

friends, 
(Though  graced  with  polished  man- 
ners and  fine  sense. 
Yet  wanting  sensibility,)  the  man 
Who    needlessly    sets  foot    upon  a 

worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the 

snail 
That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public 

path ; 
But    he    that    has    humanity,   fore- 
warned, 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile 

live. 
The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to 

the  sight. 
And  charged  perhaps  with  venom, 

that  intrudes, 
A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes 
Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  the 

alcove, 
The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die: 
A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 
Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper 

bounds, 
And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range 

the  air 
Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious 

field. 
There  they  are  privileged;   and  he 

that  hmits 


COWPER. 


161 


Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a 

wrong. 
Disturbs    the  economy  of   Nature's 

reahn, 
Who,  when  she    formed,  designed 

tliem  an  abode. 
The  sum  is  this:  If  man's  conven- 
ience, liealth. 
Or  safety  interfere,  his    rights  and 

claims  , 

Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish 

theirs. 
Else  they  are  all  —  the  meanest  things 

that  are  — 
As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 
As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the 

first. 
Who  in  his  sovereign  wisdom  made 

them  all. 
Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach 

your  sons 
To  love  it  too. 


{From  The  Task.] 
THE  POST-BOY. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  twanging  horn !  o'er 

yonder  bridge, 
That  Mutli  its  wearisome  but  needless 

length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood ;  in  which 

the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected 

bright :  — 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world. 
With  spattered  boots,  strapped  waist, 

and  frozen  locks. 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at 

his  back. 
True  to  his  task,  the  close-packed 

load  behind. 
Yet  careless  wllat  he  brings,  his  one 

concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn : 
And   having  dropped  the  expected 

bag,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted 

wretch, 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful ;  messenger  of 

grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to 

some;  [joy. 

To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or 


IFrom  lletirement.'] 

THE  SOULS   PROGRESS  CHECKED 
BY  TOO  ABSORIilNU   LOVE. 

As  woodbine  weds  the  plant  within 

her  reach. 
Rough  elm,  or  smooth-grained  ash, 

or  glossy  beech. 
In  spiral  rings  ascends  the  trunk,  and 

lays 
Her  golden  tassels  on  the  leafy  sprays, 
But  does  a  mischief  while  she  lends 

a  grace. 
Straitening  its  growth  by  such  a  strict 

embrace, 
So  love  that  clings  around  the  noblest 

minds, 
Forbids  the  advancement  of  the  soul 

he  binds. 


ALEXANDER  SELKIRK. 

I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey. 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute. 

From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  solitude !  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms. 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone. 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech ; 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain, 

My  form  with  indifference  see. 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man. 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love. 

Divinely  bestowed  upon  man. 
Oh,  had  r  the  wings  of  a  dove, 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again ! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 

In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth. 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 

And  be  cheered  by  the  sallies  of 
youth. 

Religion!  what  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heavenly  word! 


162 


COWPER. 


More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going 
bell, 
These    valleys    and    rocks    never 
heard, 
Ne'er  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 
Or    smiled    when    a  Sabbath  ap- 
peared. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your 
sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore, 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then 
send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  the  glance  of  the  mind! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of    its 
flight. 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the    swift-winged  arrows  of 
light. 
When  1  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there; 
But  alas !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  has  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair, 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest. 

And  1  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place, 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought ! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace. 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


TO  MARY. 

The  twentieth  year  is  wellnigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ;  — 
Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last! 
My  Mary! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
1  Fee  thee  daily  weaker  grow;  — 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee 
low, 

My  Mary ! 


Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 
My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will. 
My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's 

part. 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art. 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this 

heart, 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream : 
Yet  me  they  charm,   whate'er    the 
theme. 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light. 
My  Mary! 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What   sight  worth   seeing    could    I 

see? 
The  smi  would  rise  in  vain  for  me. 
My  Mary ! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline. 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign: 
Yet  gently  pressed,  press  gently  mine, 
My  Mary ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limb  thou  provest, 
That  now  at  eveiy  step  thou  movest. 
Upheld  by  two ;  yet  still  thou  lovest, 
My  Mary ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  pressed  with 

ill, 
In  winti-y  age  to  feel  fio  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still. 

My  Mary! 

But  ah !  by  constant  heed  I  know. 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe ! 
My  Mary ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past. 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 
My  Mai7 ! 


CRABBE. 


163 


George  Crabbe. 


[From  Edward  Shore.'\ 
THE  PERILS  OF  GENIUS. 

Genius!  thou  gift  of  Heaven!  thou 
Hght  divine! 

Amid  what  dangers  art  thou  doomed 
to  shine ! 

Oft  will  the  body's  weakness  check 
thy  force, 

Oft  damp  thy  vigor,  and  impede  thy 
course ; 

And  trembling  nerves  compel  thee  to 
restrain 

Thy  nobler  efforts,  to  contend  with 
pain : 

Or  Want  (sad  guest!)  will  in  thy  pres- 
ence come. 

And  breathe  around  her  melancholy 
gloom : 

To    life's  low  cares  will  thy  proud 
thought  confine, 

And  make  "her  sufferings,  her  impa- 
tience thine. 
Evil  and  strong,  seducing  passions 
prey 

On  soaring  minds,  and  win  them  from 
their  way, 

WTio  then  to  Vice  the  subject  spirits 
give,  (live : 

And  in  the  service  of  the  conqueror 

Like  captive  Samson  making  sport 
for  all, 

Who  feared  their  strength,  and  glo- 
ry in  their  fall. 
Genius,  with  virtue,  still  may  lack 
the  aid 

Implored     by    humble   minds,    and 
hearts  afraid : 

May  leave  to  timid  souls  the  shield 
and  sword 

Of  the  tried  Faith  and  the  resistless 
Word ; 

Amid  a  world  of  dangers  venturing 
forth, 

Frail,  but  yet  fearless,  proud  in  con- 
scious worth, 

Till  strong  temptation,  in  some  fatal 
time. 

Assails  the  heart,  and  wins  the  soul 
to  crime; 


When  left  by  honor,  and  by  sorrow 

spent. 
Unused  to  pray,  unable  to  repent, 
The  nobler  powers  that  once  exalted 

high 
Th'  aspiring  man  shall  then  degraded 

lie: 
Reason,  through  anguish,  shall  her 

throne  forsake. 
And  strength  of  mind  but  stronger 

madness  make. 


[From  Edtoard  Shore.] 

SLEEP   THE  DETRACTOR  OF 
BEAUTY. 

We  indeed  have  heard 

Of  sleeping  beaiUy,  and  it  has  ap- 
peared : 

'Tis  seen  in  infants  —  there  indeed 
we  find. 

The  features  softened  by  the  slum- 
bering mind ; 

But  other  beauties,  when  disposed  to 
sleep, 

Should  from  the  eye  of  keen  inspec- 
tor keep: 

The  lovely  nymph  who  would  her 
swain  surprise. 

May  close  her  mouth,  but  not  conceal 
her  eyes ; 

Sleep  from  the  fairest  face  some 
beauty  takes. 

And  all  the  homely  features  homeliei 
makes. 


{From  Edward  Shore."] 
THE    VACILLATING   PURPOSE. 

Who  often  reads  will  sometimes  wish 

to  write. 
And  Shore  would   yield   instruction 

and  delight; 
A   serious  drama  he  designed,  but 

found 
'T  was    tedious    travelling    in    that 

gloomy  ground; 


164 


CRABBE. 


A  deep  and  solemn  story  he  would 

try, 
But  grew  ashamed  of  ghosts,  and  laid 

it  by; 
Sermons  he  wrote,  but  they  who  knew 

liis  creed, 
Or  knew  it  not,  were  ill  disposed  to 

read; 
And  he  would  lastly  be  the  nation's 

guide, 
But,  studying,  failed  to  fix  upon  a 

side; 
Fame  he  desired,  and  talents  he  pos- 
sessed. 
But  loved  not  labor,  though  he  could 

not  rest. 
Nor  firmly  fix  the  vacillating  mind, 
That,  ever  working,  could  no  centre 

find. 


{From  Schools.] 
THE   TEACHER. 

He,  while  his  troop  light-hearted  leap 
and  play, 

Is  all  intent  on  duties  of  the  day; 

No  more  the  tyrant  stern  or  judge 
severe, 

He  feels  the  father's  and  the  hus- 
band's fear. 
Ah!   little  think  the  timid,  trem- 
bling crowd, 

That  one  so  wise,  so  powerful,  and 
so  proud, 

Should  feel  himself,  and  dread  the 
humble  ills 

Of  rent-day  charges  and  of  coalmen's 
bills; 

That  while  they  mercy  from  their 
judge  implore. 

He  fears  himself  —  a  knocking  at  the 
door: 

And  feels  the  burden  as  his  neighbor 
states 

His  humble  portion  to  the  parish- 
rates. 
They  sit  the  allotted  hours,  then 
eager  run. 

Rushing  to  pleasure  when  the  duty 's 
done ; 

His  hour  of  pleasure  is  of  different 
kind, 


Then  cares  domestic  rush  upon  his 

mind, 
And  half  the  ease  and  comfort  he 

enjoys. 
Is  when  surrounded  by  slates,  books, 

and  boys. 


[From  Schools.] 
LEARNING  IS  LABOR 

To  learning's  second  seats  we  novf 

proceed. 
Where    humming    students    gilded 

primers  read ; 
Or  books  with  letters  large  and  pic- 
tures gay. 
To  make  their  reading  but  a  kind  of 

play  — 
''  Reading  made  Easy,"  so  the  titles 

tell: 
But  they  who  read  must  first  begin 

to  spell ; 
There  may  be  j)rofit  in  these  arts,  but 

still. 
Learning  is  labor,  call  it  what  you 

will; 
Upon  the  youthful  mind  a  heavy  load. 
Nor  must  we  hope  to  find  the  royal 

road. 
Some  will  their  easy  steps  to  science 

show, 
And  some  to  heaven  itself  their  by- 
way know ; 
Ah !  trust  them  not,  —  who  fame  or 

bliss  would  share, 
Must  learn  by  labor,  and  must  live  by 

care. 


[From  the  Gentleman  Farmer.] 
FOLLY  OF  LITIGATION. 

Who  would  by  law  regain  his  plun- 
dered store, 

Would  pick  up  fallen  mercury  from 
the  floor; 

If  he  pursue  it,  here  and  there  it 
slides, 

He  would  collect  it,  but  it  more  di- 
vides ; 


CBABBE. 


165 


This  part  and  this  he  stops,  but  still 

in  vain, 
It  slips  aside,  and  breaks  in  parts 

again; 
Till,  after  time  and  pains,  and  care 

and  cost, 
He  finds  his  labor  and  his  object  lost. 


[From  The  Gentleman  Farmer.'] 

AGAINST  RASH  OPINIONS. 

When  men  in  health  against  phy- 
sicians rail, 
They    should    consider    that    their 

nerves  may  fail. 
Who  calls  a  lawyer  rogue,  may  find, 

too  late, 
On  one  of  these  depends  his  whole 

estate : 
Nay,  when   the  world  can  nothing 

more  produce, 
The  priest,  the  insulted  priest,  may 

have  his  use; 
Ease,  health,  and  comfort  lift  a  man 

so  high. 
These  powers  are  dwarfs  that  he  can 

scarcely  spy : 
Pain,  sickness,  languor,  keep  a  man 

so  low, 
That  these  neglected  dwarfs  to  giants 

grow : 
Happy  is  he  who  through  the  medium 

sees 
Of  clear  good  sense. 


[From  The  Parish  Register.] 
THE  AWFUL    VACANCY. 

Arrived  at  home,  how  then  they 

gazed  around, 
In    every   place,  —  where  she  —  no 

more  was  found ;  —     * 
The  seat  at  table  she  was  wont  to  fill : 
The  fireside  chair,  still  set,  but  vacant 

still: 
The  garden-walks,  a  labor  all  her  own : 
The    latticed    bower,    with    trailing 

shrubs  o'ergrown; 


The  Sunday  pew  she  filled  with  all 

her  race,  — 
Each  place  of  hers  was  now  a  sacred 

place, 
That,  while  it  called  up  sorrows  in 

the  eyes. 
Pierced  the  full  heart  and  forced  them 

still  to  rise. 
O  sacred  Sorrow!  by  whom  souls 

are  tried. 
Sent  not  to  punish  mortals,  but  to 

guide; 
If   thou  art  mine,   (and  who  shall 

proudly  dare 
To  tell  his  Maker  he  has  had  his 

share  ?) 
Still  let  me  feel  for  what  thy  pangs 

were  sent. 
And  be  my  guide  and  not  my  punish- 
ment! 


[From  The  Dumb  Orators.] 
MAN'S  DISLIKE   TO  BE  LED. 

Man  will  not  follow  where  a  rule  is 

shown. 
But  loves  to  take  a  method  of  his 

own; 
Explain  the  way  with  all  your  care 

and  skill. 
This  will  he  quit,  if  but  to  prove  he 

will. 


[From  The  Village.] 

APOSTROPHE   TO   THE   WKfMST- 
CAL. 

Say,  ye  opprest  by  some  fantastic 
woes, 

Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your 
repose ; 

Who  press  the  downy  couch  while 
slaves  advance 

With  timid  eye  to  read  the  distant 
glance ; 

Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doc- 
tor tease. 

To  name  the  nameless  ever-new 
disease ; 


166 


CJRABBE. 


Who  with  mock  patience  dire  com- 
plaints endure, 

Which  real  pain,  and  that  alone  can 
cure ; 

How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie. 

Despised,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die  ? 

How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your 
latest  breath. 

Where  all  that's  wretched  paves  the 
way  for  death  ? 


[From  Prisons.] 

THE  CONDEMNED .  HIS  BREAM 
AND  ITS  A  WAKENING. 

Stili.  I  behold  him,  every  thought 

employed 
On  one  dire  view!  —  all  others  are 

destroyed ; 
This  makes  his  features  ghastly,  gives 

the  tone 
Of  his  few  words  resemblance  to  a 

groan ; 
He  takes  his  tasteless  food,  and  when 

'tis  done, 
Counts  up  his  meals,  now  lessened 

by  that  one; 
For  expectation  is  on  time  intent, 
Whether  he  brings  us  joy  or  punish- 
ment. 
Yes!  e'en  in  sleep  the  impressions 

all  remain. 
He  hears  the  sentence  and  he  feels 

the  chain ; 
He  sees  the  judge  and  jury,  when  he 

shakes. 
And  loudly  cries,  "Not  guilty,"  and 

awakes ; 
Then    chilling  tremblings    o'er    his 

body  creep, 
Till  worn-out  nature  is  compelled  to 

sleep. 
Now  comes  the  dream  again:   it 

shows  each  scene. 
With  each  small  circumstance  that 

comes  between  — 
The  call   to  suffering  and  the  very 

deed  — 
There  crowds  go  with  him,  follow, 

and  precede ; 
Some  heartless  shout,  some  pity,  all 

condemn. 


While  he  in  fancied  env^y  looks  at 
them  : 

He  seems  the  place  for  that  sad  act  to 
see. 

And   dreams  the  very  thirst  which 
then  will  be: 

A  priest  attends  —  it  seems,  the  one 
l-.e  knew 

In  his  best  days,  beneath  whose  care 
he  grew. 
At.  this  his  terrors  take  a  sudden 
flight, 

He  sees  his  native  village  with  de- 
hght: 

The  house,  the  chamber,  where  he 
once  arrayed 

His  youthful  person ;  where  he  knelt 
and  prayed; 

Then  too  the  comforts  he  enjoyed  at 
home. 

The  days  of  joy:  the  joys  themselves 
are  come ;  — 

The  hours  of  innocence;  —  the  timid 
look 

Of  his  loved  maid,  when  first  her 
hand  he  took. 

And  told  his  hope;   her  trembling 
joy  appears. 

Her  forced  reserve,  and  his  retreat- 
ing fears. 
All  now  is  present;  —  'tis  a  mo- 
ment's gleam 

Of  fonner  sunshine  —  stay,  delightful 
dream ! 

Let  him  within  his  pleasant  garden 
walk. 

Give  him  her  arm;  of  blessings  let 
them  talk. 
Yes!  all  are  with  him  now,  and  all 
the  while 

Life's  early  prospects  and  his  Fan- 
ny's smile: 

Then  come  his  sister,  and  his  village- 
friend. 

And  he  will  now  the  sweetest  mo- 
ments spend 

Life  has  to  yield ;  —  No !  never  will  he 
find 

Again  on  earth  such  pleasures  in  his 
mind : 

He  goes  through  shrubby  walks  these 
friends  among. 

Love  in  their  looks  and  honor  on 
their  tongue : 


CRAB  BE. 


167 


Nay,  theie's  a  charm  beyond  what 

nature  shows. 
The  bloom  is  softer  and  more  sweetly 

glows :  — 
Pierced  by  no  crime,  and  m*ged  by 

no  desire 
For  more  than  true  and  honest  hearts 

require, 
They  feel  the  calm  delight,  and  thus 

proceed, 
Through  the  green  lane,  —  then  lin- 
ger in  the  mead, — 
Stray  o'er  the  heath  in  all  its  purple 

bloom,  — 
And  pluck  the  blossoms  where  the 

wild  bees  hum; 
Then  through  the  broomy  bound  with 

ease  they  pass. 
And  press    the    sandy  sheep  walk's 

slender  grass 
Where  dwarfish  flowers  among  the 

goi*se  are  spread. 
And  the  lamb  browses  by  the  linnet's 

bed; 
Then  'cross  the  l)Oimding  brook  they 

make  their  way 
O'er  its  rough  bridge  and  there  be- 
hold the  bay !  — 
The  ocean    smiling   to    the    fervid 

sun  — 
The  waves  that  faintly  fall  and  slowly 

run  — 
The  ships  at  distance  and  the  boats 

at  hand ; 
And  now  they  walk  upon  the  sea- 
side sand. 
Counting  the  number  and  what  kind 

they  be. 
Ships  softly  sinking  in  the  sleepy  sea: 
Now  arm  in  arm,  now  parted,  they 

behold 
The  glittering  waters  on  the  shingles 

rolled : 
The  timid  girls,  lialf  dreading  their 

design, 
Dip  the  small  foot  in  the  retarded 

brine, 
An:!  search  for  crimson  weeds,  which 

spreading  flow. 
Or  lie  like  pictures  on  the  sand  below: 
With   all  those  bright  red   pebbles, 

that  the  sun 
Through   the  small  waves  so  softly 

shines  upon ; 


And  those  live  lucid  jellies  which  the 

eye 
Delights  to  trace  as  they  swim  glit- 
tering by: 
Pearl-shells  and  rubied  star-fish  they 

admire. 
And  will  arrange  above  the  parlor 

fire,  — 
Tokens  of  bliss!  —  "  Oh !  horrible  I  a 

wave 
Roars  as  it  rises  —  save  me,  Edward ! 

save!" 
She  cries: —  Alas!  the  watchman  on 

his  way 
Calls,  and  lets  in  —  truth,  terror,  and 

the  day ! 


[From  The  Lover^s  Journey.] 

EXTERNAL  rMPRESSIONS  DEPEN- 
DENT ON  THE  SOU  US  MOODS. 

It  is  the  Soul  that  sees:  the  out' 

ward  eyes 
Present  the  object,  but  the  Mind  de- 
scries ; 
And  thence  delight,  disgust,  or  cool 

indifference  rise: 
When  minds  are  joyful,  then  we  look 

around. 
And    what  is    seen  is  all  on   fairy 

ground ; 
Again  they  sicken,  and  on  every  view 
Cast  their  own  dull  and  melancholy 

hue; 
Or,  if  absorbed  by  their  peculiar  cares. 
The  vacant  eye  on  viewless  matter 

glares. 
Our  feelings  still  upon  our  views  at- 
tend. 
And  their  own  natures  to  the  objects 

lend ;  [sure. 

Sorrow  and  joy  are  in  their  influence 
Long  as  the  passion  reigns  th'  efifects 

endure : 
But  Love  in  minds  his  various  changes 

makes, 
And  clothes  each    object    with  the 

change  he  takes; 
His  light  and  shade  on  every  view 

he  throws. 
And  on  each  object,  what  he  feels, 

bestows. 


168 


CFABBE. 


[From  The  Parting  Hour.) 
LIFE. 

Minutely  trace  man's  life:  year 

after  year, 
Through  all  his  days  let  all  his  deeds 

appear, 
And  then,  though  some  may  in  that 

life  be  strange, 
Yet  there  appears  no  vast  nor  sudden 

change : 
The  links  that  bind    those  various 

deeds  are  seen. 
And  no  mysterious  void  is  left  be- 
tween. 
But  let  these  binding  links  be  all 

destroyed. 
All  that  through  years  he  suffered  or 

enjoyed : 
Let  that  vast  gap  be  made,  and  then 

behold  — 
This  was  the  youth,  and  he  is  thus 

when  old ; 
Then  we  at  once  the  work  of  time 

survey. 
And  in  an  instant  see  a  life's  decay; 
Pain  mixed  with  pity  in  our  bosoms 

rise. 
And  sorrow  takes  new  sadness  from 

surprise. 


[From  The  Parting  Hoiir.] 
FRIEND  SHIP  IN  AGE  AND  SORROW. 

Beneath  yon  tree,  observe  an  an- 
cient pair  — 

A  sleeping  man;  a  woman  in  her 
chair, 

Watching  his  looks  with  kind  and 
pensive  air; 

Nor  wife,  nor  sister  she,  nor  is  the 
name 

Nor  kindred  of  this  friendly  pair  the 
same; 

Yet  so  allied  are  they,  that  few  can 
feel 

Her  constant,  warm,  unwearied,  anx- 
ious zeal ; 

Their  years  and  woes,  although  they 
long  have  loved. 

Keep  their  good  name  and  conduct 
unreproved ; 


Thus  life's  small  comforts  they  to- 
gether share, 

And  while  life  lingers,  for  the  graye 
prepare, 
No  other  subjects  on  their  spirits 
press. 

Nor  gain  such  interest  as  the  past  dis- 
tress ; 

Grievous  events,  that  from  the  mem- 
ory drive 

Life's  common  cares,  and  those  alone 
survive, 

Mix  with  each  thought,  in  every  ac- 
tion share. 

Darken  each  dream,  and  blend  with 
every  prayer. 


[From  The  Library.^ 
CONTRO  VERS  I AL  IS  TS. 

Against  her  foes  Religion  well  de- 
fends 
Her  sacred  truths,  but  often  fears  her 

friends; 
If  learned,  their  pride,  if  weak,  their 

zeal  she  dreads, 
And  their  hearts'  weakness  who  have 

soundest  heads: 
But  most  she  fears  the  controversial 

pen. 
The  holy  strife  of  dispiUatious  men ; 
Who  the  blest  Gospel's  peaceful  page 

explore, 
Only  to   fight    against   its    precepts 

more. 


[From  The  Library. 1 
TO  CRITICS. 

Foes  to  our  race !  if  ever  ye  have 
known 

A  father's  fears  for  offspring  of  your 
own; 

If  ever,  smiling  o'er  a  lucky  line. 

Ye  thought  the  sudden  sentiment  di- 
vine. 

Then  paused  and  doubted,  and  then 
tired  of  doubt, 

With  rage  as  sudden  dashed  the  stanza 
,    out ;  — 


CRABBE. 


109 


If,  after  fearing  much  and  pausing 
long, 

Ye  ventured  on  the  world  your  la- 
bored song. 

And  from  the  crusty  critics  of  those 
days 

Implored  the  feeble  tribute  of  their 
praise, 

Kemeraber  now  the  fears  that  moved 
you  then. 

And,  spite  of  truth,  let  mercy  guide 
your  pen. 


[From  The  Library.'] 
PHILOSOPHY. 

How  vice  and  virtue  in  the  soul 

contend ; 
How  widely  differ,  yet  how  nearly 

blend ; 
What  various  passions  war  on  either 

part, 
And    now    confirm,    now  melt    the 

yielding  heart: 
How  Fancy  loves  around  the  world 

to  stray. 
While    Judgment    slowly  picks   his 

sober  way; 
The    stores    of    memory,    and    the 

flights  sublime 
Of  genius  bound  by  neither  space  nor 

time;  — 
All  these  divine  Philosophy  explores, 
Till ,  lost  in  awe,   she  wonders  and 

adores. 


[From  The  Library.] 
THE   UNIVERSAL  LOT. 

Care  lives  with  all ;  no  rules,  no 

precepts  save 
The  wise  from  woe,  no  fortitude  the 

brave ; 
Grief  is  to  man  as  certain  as  the 

grave: 
Tempests  and  storms  in  life's  whole 

progress  rise, 


And  hope  shines  dimly  through  o'er- 

clouded  skies; 
Some  drops  of  comfort  on  the  favored 

fall. 
But  showers  of  sorrow  are  the  lot  of 

all: 
Partial  to  talents,  then,  shall  Heaven 

withdraw 
Th'  afflicting  rod,  or  break  the  general 

law? 
Shall  he  who  soars,  inspired  by  loftier 

view^s. 
Life's  little  cares  and  little  pains  re- 
fuse ? 
Shall  he  not  rather  feel  a  double  share 
Of  mortal  woe,  when  doubly  armed 

to  bear  ? 


[From  The  Library.] 

UNION    OF    FAITH   AND    REASON 
NECESSAR  Y. 

When  first  Religion  came  to  bless 
the  land. 

Her  friends  were  then  a  firm  believ- 
ing band. 

To  doubt  was  then  to  plunge  in  guilt 
extreme. 

And  all  was  gospel  that  a  monk  could 
dream ; 

Insulted  Reason  fled  the  grovelling 
soul. 

For  Fear  to  guide,  and  visions  to  con- 
trol; 

But  new,  when  Reason  has  assumed 
her  throne. 

She,  in  her  turn,  demands  to  reign 
alone ; 

Rejecting  all  that  lies  beyond  her 
view. 

And,  being  judge,  will  be  a  witness 
too: 

Insulted  Faith  then  leaves  the  doubt- 
ful mind. 

To  seek  the  truth,  without  a  power  to 
find: 

Ah!  when  will  both  in  friendly  beams 
unite, 

And  pour  on  erring  man  resistless 


170 


CBAIK. 


[From  The  Library.] 

They  soothe  the  grieved,   the  stub- 

born they  chastise, 

BOOKS. 

Fools  they  admonish,    and  confirm 

the  wise; 

But  what  strange  art,  what  magic 

Their  aid  they  yield  to  all;  they  never 

can  dispose 

shun 

The  troubled  mind  to  change  its  na- 

The man  of  sorrow,  nor  the  wretch 

tive  woes  ? 

undone ; 

Or  lead  us  wilhng  from  ourselves,  to 

Unlike  the  hard,  the  selfish,  and  the 

see 

proud. 

Others  more  wretched,  more  undone 

They  fly  not  sullen  from  the  suppli- 

than we  ? 

ant  crowd ; 

This  BOOKS  can  do;  — nor  this  alone; 

they  give 
New  views  to  life,  and  teach  us  how 

Nor  tell  to    various  people  various 

things. 
But  show  to  subjects  what  they  show 

tohve; 

to  kings. 

Dinah   Mulock   Craik. 


GREEN  THINGS   GROWING. 

Oh,  the  green  things  growing,  the 

green  things  growing, 
The  faint  sweet  smell  of  the  green 

things  growing! 
I  should  like  to  live,  whether  I  smile 

or  grieve. 
Just  to  watch  the  happy  life  of  my 

green  things  growing. 

Oh,  the  fluttering  and  the  pattering 

of  those  green  things  growing! 
How  they  talk  each  to  each,  when 

none  of  us  are  knowing; 
In  the  wonderful  w^hite  of  the  weird 

moonlight 
Or  the  dim  dreamy  dawn  when  the 

cocks  are  crowing. 

I  love,  I  love  them  so, —  my  green 
things  growing! 

And  I  think  that  they  love  me,  with- 
out false  showing; 

For  by  many  a  tender  touch,  they 
comfort  me  so  nuich, 

With  the  soft  nuite  comfort  of  green 
things  growing. 


And  in  the  rich  store  of  their  blos- 
soms glowing 

Ten  for  one  I  take  they're  on  me  be- 
stowing: 

Oh,  I  should  like  to  see,  if  God's  will 
it  may  be, 

Many,  many  a  summer  of  my  green 
things  growing! 

But  if  I  must  be  gathered  for  the  an- 
gels' sowing, 

Sleep  out  of  sight  awhile,  like  the 
green  things  growing. 

Though  dust  to  dust  return,  1  think 
I'll  scarcely  mourn. 

If  I  may  change  into  green  things 
growing. 


NOW  AND  AFTERWARDS. 

**  Two  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labor's  done; 
Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest, — 
The  race  is  won; 
Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut. 

And  all  tears  cease; 


PLIGHTED. 


Page  171 


CRAIK. 


171 


Two  lips  wiiere  grief  is  mute, 
Anger  at  peace;" 
So    pray   we    oftentimes,   mourning 

our  lot 
God  in  his  kindness  answeretli  not. 

"  Two  hands  to  work  addrest 

Aye  for  His  praise; 
Two  feet  that  never  rest 

Walking  His  ways; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above 
Through  all  their  tears; 
Two  lips  still  breathing  love. 
Not  wrath,  nor  fears;  " 
So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our 

knees ; 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers!  Father, 
hear  these! 


PLIGHTED. 

Mine  to  the  core  of  the  heart,  my 

beauty ! 
Mine,  all  mine,   and  for  love,   not 

duty: 
Love  given  willingly,  full  and  free. 
Love  for  love's  sake, —  as  mine  to 

thee. 
Duty's  a  slave  that  keeps  the  keys. 
But  Love,  the  master,  goes  in  and  out 
Of  his  goodly  chambers  with  song 

and  shout, 
Just  as  he  please,  —  just    as    he 

please. 

Mine,  from  the  dear  head's  crown, 
brown-golden. 

To  the  silken  foot  that's  scarce  be- 
holden; 

Give  to  a  few  friends  hand  or  smile. 

Like    a    generous    lady,    now    and 
awhile, 
But  the  sanctuary  heart,  that  none 
dare  win, 

Keep  holiest  of  holiest  evermore; 

The  crowd  in  the  aisles  may  watch 
the  door. 
The  high-priest  only  enters  in. 

Mine,   my  own,   without  doubts  or 

terrors. 
With    all    thy    goodnesses,    all    thy 

errors. 


Unto  me  and  to  me  alone  revealed, 

"A    spring    shut    up,    a    fountain 
sealed." 
Many    may  praise    thee,  —  praise 
mine  as  thine, 

Many  may  love  thee, —  I'll  love  them 
too; 

But  thy  heart  of  hearts,  pure,  faith- 
ful, and  true. 
Must  be  mine,  mine  wholly,  and 
only  mine. 

Mine!— God,   I   thank   Thee    that 

Thou  hast  given 
Something   all    mine    on    this    side 

heaven : 
Something  as  much  myself  to  be 
As  this  my  soul  which  I  lift  to  Thee : 
Flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone; 
Life  of  my  life,  whom  Thou  dost 

make 
Two  to  the  world  for  the  world's 

work's  sake, — 
But  each  unto  each,  as  in  Thy 

sight,  one. 


PHILIP,  MY  KING. 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown 
eyes, 
Philip,  my  king. 
Round  whom  the  enshadowing  pur- 
ple lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities; 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 
With  love's  invisible  sceptre  laden 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command 
Till   thou  shalt  find  a  queen-hand- 
maiden, 
Philip,  my  king. 

Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-woo- 

Philip,  my  king! 
When  those  beautiful  lips  are  suing. 
And  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undomg 
Thou  dost"  enter,  love-crowned,  and 

there 
Sittest  love-glorified.     Rule  kindly. 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair, 
For  we  that  love,   ah!  we  love  sc 

blindly, 
Philip,  my  king. 


172 


CRAIK. 


Up  from  thy  sweet  month, —  up  to 

thy  brow, 

Philip,  ray  king! 
The  spirit  that  there  hes  sleeping 

now 
May  rise  hke  a  giant  and  make  men 

bow 
As  to  one  heaven-chosen  amongst 

his  peers: 
My  Saul,   than  thy  brethren  taller 

and  fairer 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years; 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  king. 

—  A  WTcath  not  of  gold,  but  palm. 

One  day, 
Philip,  my  king, 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a 

way 
Thorny  and  cruel  and  cold  and  gray : 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without, 
Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.  But  march 

on,  glorious, 
Martyr,    yet    monarch;    till    angels 

shout  [victorious. 

As  thou  sit'st  at  the  feet  of  God 
"Philip,  the  kmg!" 


TOO  LATE. 

Could  you  come  back  to  me,  Douglas, 
Douglas, 
In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,   so  loving, 
Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve 
you, 
I'd  smile  on  you  sweet  as  the  angels 
do;  — 
Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone 
ever. 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Oh,  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words 

were  few. 

Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in 

heaven, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true? 


I  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you: 
Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like 
shadows, — 
I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and 
true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Doug- 
las, Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like 
dew ; 
As  I  lay  my  heart  on    your  dead 
heart,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


RESIGNING. 

Children,  that  lay  their  pretty  gar- 
lands by 

So  piteously,  yet  with  a  humble 
mind ; 

Sailors,  who,  when  their  ship  rocks 
in  the  wind, 

Cast  out  her  freight  with  half-averted 
eye. 

Riches  for  life  exchanging  solemnly. 

Lest  they  should  never  gain  the 
wished-f  or  shore ;  — 

Thus  we,  O  Father,  standing  Thee 
before, 

Do  lay  down  at  Thy  feet  without  a 
sigh 

Each  after  each  our  precious  things 
and  rare. 

Our  dear  heart-jewels  and  our  gar- 
lands fair. 

Perhaps  Thou  knewest  that  the  flow- 
ers would  die. 

And  the  long-voyaged  hoards  be 
found  but  dust : 

So  took'st  them,  while  unchanged. 
To  Thee  we  trust    » 

For  incorruptible  treasure :  Thou  art 
just. 


MY  LITTLE  BOY  THAT  DIED. 

Look  at  his  pretty  face  for  just  one 
minute ! 
His  braided  frock  and  dainty  but- 
toned shoes ; 


CRANCH. 


173 


His    firm-shut    hand,    the    favorite 
plaything  in  it, — 
Tlien  tell  me,  mothers,  was 't  not 
hard  to  lose 
And  miss  him  from  ray  side, — 
My  little  boy  that  died  ? 

How  many  another  boy,  as  dear  and 
charming,  [delight, 

His  father's  hope,  his  mother's  one 
Slips  through  strange  sicknesses,  all 
fear  disarming, 
And  lives  a  long,  long  life  in  par- 
ents' sight! 
Mine  was  so  short  a  pride ! 
And  then, —  my  poor  boy  died. 

I  see  him  rocking  on  his  wooden 

charger; 

I  hear  him  pattering  through  the 

house  all  day ; 

I  w^atch  his  great  blue  eyes    grow 

large  and  larger,  |  or  gay, 

Listeniig  to  stories,  whether  grave 


Told  at  the  bright  fireside. 
So  dark  now,  since  he  died. 

But  yet  I  often  think  my  boy  is  liv- 
ing. 
As  living  as  my  other  children  are. 
When  good-night  kisses  I  all  round 
am  givhig, 
I  keep  one  for  him,  though  he  is 
so  far. 
Can  a  mere  grave  divide 
Me  from  him, —  though  he  died? 


So,  while  I  come  and  plant  it  o'er 
with  daisies 
(Nothing  but  childish  daisies  all 
year  round). 
Continually  God's  hand  the  curtain 
raises. 
And  I  can  hear  his  merry  voice's 
sound, 
And  feel  him  at  my  side, — 
My  little  boy  that  died. 


Christopher  Pearse  Cranch. 


A   THRUSH  IN  A  GILDED  CAGE. 

Was  this  the  singer  1  had  heard  so 
long, 
But  never  till  this  evening,  face  to 
face? 
And  were  they  his,  those  tones  so 
imlike  song, 
Those    words    conventional     and 
commonplace  ? 

Those  echoes  of  the  usual  social  chat 
That  filled  with  noise  confused  the 
crowded  hall; 
That  smiling  face,  black  coat,  and 
white  cravat; 
Those  fashionable  manners, —  was 
this  all  ? 

He  glanced  at  freedmen,  operas,  pol- 
itics. 
And  ^tlier  common  topics  of  the 
day; 


But  not  one  brilliant  image  did  he 
mix 
With  all  the  prosy  things  he  had  to 
say. 

At  least  I  hoped  that  one  I  long  had 
known. 
In  the  inspired  books  that  built  his 
fame. 
Would    breathe    some    word,    some 
sympathetic  tone. 
Fresh  from  the  ideal  region  whence 
he  came. 

And  so  I  leave  the  well-dressed,  buzz- 
ing crowd. 
And  vent  my  spleen  alone  here  by 
my  fire; 
Mourning  the  fading  of  my  golden 
cloud. 
The  disappointment  of  my  life's 
desire. 


174 


CRANCH. 


Simple  enthusiast!  why  do  you  re- 
quire 
A  budding  rose  for  every  thorny 
stalk  ? 
Why  must  we  poets  always  bear  the 
lyre 
And  "sing,  when  fashion  forces  us 
to  talk  ? 

Only  at  moments  comes  the  muse's 
light. 
Alone,  like  shy  wood-thrushes,  war- 
ble we. 
Catch  us  in  traps  like  this  dull  crowd 
to-night, 
We  are  but  plain,  brown  feathered 
birds,  you  see ! 


COM  PENS  A  TION. 

Tears  wash  away  the  atoms  in  the 
eye 
That  smarted  for  a  day ; 
Rain-clouds  that  spoiled  the  splen- 
dors of  the  sky 
The  fields  with  flowers  array. 

No  chamber  of  pain  but  has  some 
hidden  door 

That  promises  release ;  [store 

No  solitude  so  drear  but  yields  its 

Of  thought  and  inward  peace. 

No  night  so  wild  but  brings  the  con- 
stant sun 
With  love  and  power  untold; 
No  time  so  dark  but  through  its  woof 
there  run 
Some  blessed  threads  of  gold. 

And  through  the  long  and  storm-tost 
centuries  burn 
In  changing  calm  and  strife 
The  Pharos-lights  of  truth,  where'er 
we  turn, — 
The  unquenched  lamps  of  life. 

O  Love  supreme!  O  Providence  di- 
vine ! 
What  self-adjusting  springs 
Of  law  and   life,  what  even  scales, 
are  thine. 
What  sure-returning  wings 


Of  hopes  and  joys  that  flit  like  birds 
away, 
When  chilling  autumn  blows. 
But  come  again,  long  ere  the  buds  of 
May 
Their  rosy  lips  unclose ! 

What  wondrous  play  of  mood   and 
accident 

Through  shifting  days  and  years ; 
What  fresh  returns  of  vigor  overspent 

In  feverish  dreams  and  fears ! 

AVhat  wholesome  air  of  conscience 
and  of  thought 
When  doubts  and  forms  oppress ; 
What  vistas  opening  to  the  gates  we 
sought 
Beyond  the  wilderness; 

Beyond  the  narrow  cells  where  self- 
involved. 
Like  chrysalids,  we  wait 
The  unknown  births,  the  mysteries 
luisolved 
Of  death  and  change  and  fate ! 

O  Light  divine!  we  need  no  fuller 
test 
That  all  is  ordered  well ; 
We  know  enough  to  trust  that  all  is 
best 
Where  Love  and  Wisdom  dwell. 


MEMORIAL  HALL. 

Amid  the  elms  that  interlace 
Round    Harvard's    grounds    their 
branches  tall. 
We  greet  no  walls  of  statelier  grace 
Than  thine,  our  proud  Memorial 
Hall! 


Through  arching  boughs  and  roofs  of 
green 
Whose  dappled  lights  and  shadows 
lie 
Along  the  turf  and  road,  is  seen 
Thy  noble  form  against  th^  sky. 


CRANCH. 


175 


And     miles     away,    on    fields    and 
streams, 
Or  where  the  woods  the   hilltop 
crown, 
The  monumental  temple  gleams, 
A  landmark  to  each  neighboring 
town. 

Nor  this  alone ;  New  England  knows 
A  deeper  meaning  in  the  pride 

Whose  stately  architecture  shows 
How    Harvard's    children    fought 
and  died. 

Therefore  this  hallowed  pile  recalls 
The  heroes,  young  and  true  and 
brave, 
Who  gave  their  memories  to  these 
walls. 
Their    lives    to    fill    the    soldier's 
grave. 

The  farmer,  as  he  drives  his  team 
To  market  in  the  morn,  afar 

Beholds  the  golden  sunrise  gleam 
Upon  thee,  like  a  glistening  star. 

And  gazing,  he  remembers  well 
Why  stands  yon  tower  so  fair  and 
tall. 
His  sons  perhaps  in  battle  fell ; 
For    him,    too,    shines    Memorial 
Hall. 

And  sometimes  as  the  student  glides 
Along  the  winding  Charles,  and  sees 

Across  the  flats  thy  glowing  sides 
Above  the  elms  and  willow-trees, 

Upon  his  oar  he'll  turn  and  pause, 
Remembering  the  heroic  aims 

Of  those  who  linked  their  country's 
cause 
In  deathless  glory  with  their  names. 

And  as  against  the  moonlit  sky 
The  shadowy  mass  looms  overhead. 

Well  may  we  linger  with  a  sigh 
Beneath  ihe  tablets  of  the  dead. 

The  snow-drifts  on  thy  roof    shall 
wreathe 
Their  crowns  of  virgin  white  for 
them : 


The  whispering  winds    of   summer 
breathe 
At  morn  and  eve  their  requiem. 

For  them  the  Cambridge  bells  shall 
chime 

Across  the  noises  of  the  town ; 
The  cannon's  peal  recall  their  time 

Of  stem  resolve  and  brief  renown. 

Concord  and  Lexington  shall  still, 
Like  deep  to  deep,  to  Harvard  call; 

The  tall  gray  shaft  on  Bunker  Hill 
Speak  greetings  to  Memorial  Hall. 

Oh,  never  may  the  land  forget 
Her  loyal  sons  who  died  that  we 

Might  live,   remembering    still    our 
debt. 
The  costly  price  of  Liberty  I 


THOUGHT. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 
What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils ; 
Man  by  man  was  never  seen ; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 
To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known; 
Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 
Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart  though  seeming  near, 
In  our  light  we  scattered  lie; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What'  is  social  company 
But  a  babbling  summer  stream  ? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 
But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 
Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 
Only  when  we  live  above 
What     the     dim-eyed    world    hatli 
taught ; 


176 


CliANCII. 


Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  The  fount  whicli  gave  them  birth, 

And  by  inspiration  led 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run. 
Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


/  /iV   THEE,  AND   THOU  IN  ME. 

I  AM  but  clay  in  thy  hands,  but  Thou 
art  the  all-loving  artist. 
Passive  1  lie  in  thy  sight,  yet  in  my 
selfhood  I  strive 
So  to  embody  the  life  and  the  love 
thou  ever  impartest, 
That  in  my  sphere  of  the  finite,  I 
may  be  truly  alive. 

Knowing  thou  needest  this  form,  as 
I  thy  divine  inspiration. 
Knowing  thou  shapest  the  clay  with 
a  vision  and  pui*pose  divine. 
So  would  I  answer  each  touch  of  thy 
hand  in  its  loving  creation, 
That  in  my  conscious  life  thy  pow- 
er and  beauty  may  shine, 

Reflecting  the  noble  intent  thou  hast 
in  forming  thy  creatures ; 
Waking  from  sense  into  life  of  the 
soul,  and  the  image  of  thee; 
Working  with  thee  in  thy  work  to 
model  humanity's  features 
Into  the  likeness  of  God,  myself 
from  myself  I  would  free. 

One  with  all  human  existence,  no 

one  above  or  below  me ; 

Lit  by  thy  wisdom  and  love,  as 

roses  are  steeped  in  the  morn  ; 

Growing  from  clay  to  a  statue,  from 

statue  to  flesh,  till  thou  know 

me 

Wrought  into  manhood  celestial, 

and  in  thine  image  re-born.    • 

So  in  thy  love  will  I  trust,  bringing 
me  sooner  or  later 
Past  the  dark  screen  that  divides 
these  shows  of  the  finite  from 
thee. 


Thine,  thine  only,  this  warm,  dear 
life,  O  loving  Creator ! 
Thine  the  invisible  future,  born  of 
the  present,  must  be. 


SOFT,  BROWN,  SMILING  EYES. 

Soft,  brown,  smiling  eyes. 

Looking  back  through  years, 
Smiling  through  the  mist  of  time, 

Filling  mine  with  tears ; 
On  this  sunny  morn, 

While  the  grape-blooms  swing 
In  the  scented  air  of  June, — 

Why  these  memories  bring  ? 

Silky  rippling  curls, 

Tresses  long  ago 
Laid  beneath  the  shaded  sod 

Where  the  violets  blow; 
Why  across  the  blue 

Of  the  peerless  day 
Do  ye  droop  to  meet  my  own. 

Now  all  turned  to  gray  ? 

Voice  whose  tender  tones 

Break  in  sudden  mirth. 
Heard  far  back  in  boyhood's  spring, 

Silent  now  on  earth; 
Why  so  sweet  and  clear, 

While  the  bird  and  bee 
Fill  the  balmy  summer  air, 

Come  your  tones  to  me  ? 

Sweet,  ah,  sweeter  far 

Than  yon  thrush's  trill. 
Sadder,  sweeter  than  the  wind, 

Woods,  or  murmuring  rill, 
Spirit  words  and  songs 

O'er  my  senses  creep. 
Do  I  breathe  the  air  of  dreams  ? 

Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


WHY? 


Why  was  I  bom,  and  where  was  I 
Before  this  living  mystery 
That  weds  the  body  to  the  soul  ? 
What  are  the  laws  by  whose  control 


CRANCH, 


177 


I  live  and  feel  and  think  and  know  ? 
AVhat  the  allegiance  that  I  owe 
To  tides  beyond  all  time  and  space  ? 
What  form  of  faith  must  I  embrace  ? 
Why  thwarted,   starved,   and   over- 
borne 
By  fate, —  an  exile,  driven  forlorn 
By  fitful  winds,  where  each  event 
Seems  but  the  whirl  of  accident  ? 
Why  feel  our  wings  so  incomplete, 
Or,  flying,  but  a  plumed  deceit, 
Benewing  all  our  lives  to  us 
The  fable  old  of  Icarus  ? 

Tell  me  the  meaning  of  the  breath 
That  whispers  from  the   house   of 

death. 
That    chills    thought's    metaphysic 

strife. 
That  dims  the  dream  of  After-life. 
Why,  if  we  lived  not  ere  our  birth, 
Hope  for  a  state  beyond  this  earth  ? 
Tell  me  the  secret  of  the  hope 
That  gathers,  as  we  upwards  ope 
The  skylights  of  the  prisoned  soul 
Unto  the  perfect  and  the  whole ; 
Yet  why  the  loveliest  things  of  earth 
Mock  in  their  death  their  glorious 

birth. 
Why,  when  the  scarlet  sunset  floods 
The  west  beyond  the  hills  and  woods, 
Or  June  witli  roses  crowds  my  porch. 
Or    northern    lights    with    crimson 

torch 
Illume  the  snow  and  veil  the  stars 
With  streaming  bands  and  wavering 

bars, 
Or  music's  sensuous,  soul-like  wine 
Intoxicates  with  trance  divine, — 
Why  then  must  sadness  like  a  thief 
Steal  my  aromas  of  belief, 
And  like  a  cloud  that  shuts  the  day 
At  sunrise,  turn  my  gold  to  gray  ? 

Tell  me  why  instincts  meant  for  good 
Turn  to  a  madness  of  the  blood ; 
And,  baffling  all  our  morals  nice, 
Nature  seems  nearly  one  with  vice ; 
What  sin  and  misery  mean,  if  blent 
With  good  in  one  divine  intent. 
Why  from  such    source    must    evil 

spring, 
And  finite  still  mean  suflfering  ? 


Look  on  the  millions  born  to  blight; 
The  souls  that  pine  for  warmth  and 

light: 
The  crushed  and  stifled  swarms  that 

pack 
The  foul  streets  and  the  alleys  black, 
The  miserable  lives  that  crawl 
Outside  the  grim  partition  wall 
'Twixt  rich  and  poor,  'twixt  foul  and 

fair, 
'Twixt  vaulting  hope  and  lame  de- 
spair. 
On  that  wall's  sunny  side,  within, 
Hang  ripening   fruits    and    tendrils 

green. 
O'er  garden-beds  of  bloom  and  spice, 
And  perfume  as  of  paradise. 
There  happy  children  run  and  talk 
Along  the  shade-flecked  gravel-w^alk, 
And  lovers  sit  in  rosy  bowers, 
And  music  overflows  the  hours. 
And  wealth  and  health  and  mirth 

and  books 
Make  pictures  in  Arcadian  nooks. 
But  on  that  wall's  grim  outer  stones 
The    fierce    north-wind    of    winter 

groans ; 
Through  blinding  dust,   o'er   bleak 

highway. 
The  slant  sun's  melancholy  ray 
Sees  stagnant    pool    and    poisonous 

weed. 
The  hearts  that  faint,  the  feet  that 

bleed. 
The    grovelling    aim,    the    flagging 

faith, 
The  starving    curse,   the  drowning 

death! 

O  wise  philosopher !  you  soothe 
Our    troubles    with    a    touch    too 

smooth. 
Too  plausibly  your  reasonings  come. 
They  will  not  guide  me  to  my  home ; 
They  lead  me  on  a  little  way 
Through  meadows,  groves,  and  gar- 
dens gay, 
Until  a  wall  shuts  out  my  day, — 
A  screen  whose  top  is  hid  in  clouds. 
Whose  base  is  deep  on  dead  men's 

shrouds. 
Could  I  dive  under  pain  and  death, 
Or  mount  and    breathe   the  whole 
heaven's  breath. 


178 


CROLY. 


I  might  begin  to  comprehend 
How  the  Beginning  joins  the  End. 


We  agonize  in  doubt,  perplexed 
O'er  fate,  free-will,  and  Bible-text. 
In  vain.     The  spirit  finds  no  vent 
From  out  the  imprisoning  tempera- 
ment. 


Therefore  I  bow  my  spirit  to  the 

Power 
That  underflows  and  fills  my  little 

hour. 
1  feel  the  eternal  'symphony  afloat, 
In  which  I  am  a  breath,  a  passing 

note. 
I  may  be  but  a  dull  and  jarring  nerve 
In  the  great  body,  yet  some  end  1 

serve. 

Yea,  though  I  dream  and  question 
still  the  dream 

Thus  floating  by  me  upon  Being's 
stream, 

Some  end  I  serve.  Love  reigns.  I 
cannot  lose 

The  Primal  Light,  though  thousand- 
fold its  hues. 


I  can  believe  that  somewhere  Truth 

abides; 
Not  in   the  ebb  and  flow  of  those 

small  tides 
That  float  the  dogmas  of  our  saints 

and  sects; 
Not  in  a  thousand  tainted  dialects. 
But  in  the  one  pure  language,  could 

we  hear, 
That  fills  with  love  and  light  the  ser- 
aphs' sphere. 
I  can  believe  there  is  a  Central  Good, 
That  burns  and  shines  o'er  tempera- 
ment and  mood; 
That  somewhere  God  will  melt  the 

clouds  away, 
And    his    great    purpose    shine    as 

shines  the  day. 
Then  may  we  know  why  now  we 

could  not  know; 
Why  the  great  Isis-curtain  drooped 

so  low; 
Why  w^e  were  blindfold  on  a  path  of 

light; 
Why  came  wild  gleams  and  voices 

through  the  night; 
Why  we  seemed  drifting,  storm-tost, 

without  rest. 
And  were  but  rocking  on  a  mother's 

breast. 


George   Croly. 


EVENING. 

When  eve  is  purpling  cliff  and  cave. 
Thoughts  of  the  heart,  how  soft  ye 
flow! 

Not  softer  on  the  western  wave 
The  golden  lines  of  sunset  glow. 

Then  all,  by  chance  or  fate  removed. 
Like  spirits  crowd  upon  the  eye ; 

The  few  we  liked  —  the  one  we  loved ! 
And  the  whole  heart  is  memory. 

And  life  is  like  a  fading  flower, 
Its  beauty  dying  as  we  gaze; 

Yet  as  the  shadows  round  us  lour. 
Heaven    pours    above    a   brighter 
blaze. 


When  morning  sheds    its  gorgeous 
dye, 
Our  hope,  our  heart,  to  earth  is 
given; 
But  dark  and  lonely  is  the  eyo 
That  turns  not,  at  its  eve,  to  heaven. 


CUPID  GROWN  CAREFUL. 

There  was  once  a  gentle  time 

When  the  world  was  in  its  prime; 

And  every  day  was  holiday. 

And  every  month  was  lovely  May. 

Cupid  then  had  but  to  go 

With  his  purple  wings  and  bow; 


CROWNE—  CUNNINGHAM. 


179 


And  in  blossomed  vale  and  grove 
Every  shepherd  knelt  to  love. 
Then  a  rosy,  dimpled  cheek, 
And  a  blue  eye,  fond  and  meek; 
And  a  ringlet-wreathen  brow. 
Like  hyacinths  on  a  bed  of  snow : 
And  a  low  voice,  silver  sweet, 
From  a  lip  without  deceit ; 
Only  these  the  hearts  could  move 
Of  the  simple  swains  to  love. 

But  that  time  is  gone  and  past, 
Can  the  summer  always  last  ? 
And  the  swains  are  wiser  grown, 
And  the  heart  is  turned  to  stone, 


And  the  maiden's  rose  may  wither; 
Cupid's  fled,  no  man  knows  whither. 
But  another  Cupid's  come. 
With  a  brow  of  care  and  gloom: 
Fixed  upon  the  earthly  mould. 
Thinking  of  the  sullen  gold ; 
In  his  hand  the  bow  no  more. 
At  his  back  the  household  store, 
That  the  bridal  gold  must  buy : 
Useless  now  the  smile  and  sigh; 
But  he  wears  the  pinion  still, 
Flying  at  the  sight  of  ill. 

Oh,  for  the  old  true-love  time. 
When  the  world  was  in  its  primal 


John  Crowne. 


WISHES  FOR  OBSCURITY. 

How  miserable  a  thing  is  a  great 

man! 
Take    noisy  vexing   greatness   they 

that  please ;  |  ease. 

Give  me  obscure  and  safe  and  silent 
Acquaintance  and  commerce  let  me 

have  none 
With  any  powerful  thing  but  time 

alone: 
My  rest  let  Time  be  fearful  to  offend, 
And  creep  by  me  as  by  a  slumbering 

friend ; 


Oh,  wretched  he  who,  called  abroad 

by  power. 
To  know  himself  can  never  find  an 

hour ! 
Strange  to  himself,  but  to  all  others 

known. 
Lends  every  one  his  life,   but  uses 

none ; 
So,  ere  he  tasted  life,  to  death  he 

goes, 
And  himself  loses   ere   himself   he 

knows. 


Allan  Cunningham. 


THOU  HAST  SWORN  BY  THY  GOD. 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my 
Jeanie, 
By  that  pretty  white  hand  o'  thine. 
And  by  a'  the  lowing  stars  in  heaven, 

That  thou  wad  aye  be  mine; 
And  I  hae  sworn  by  my  God,   my 
Jeanie, 
And  by  that  kind  heart  o'  thine. 
By  a'   the    stars    sown    thick    owre 
heaven, 
That  thou  shalt  aye  be  mine. 


Then  foul  fa'  the  hands  that  wad 
loose  sic  bands,  . 
An'   the  heart  that  wad  part  sic 
luve; 
But  there's  nae  hand  can  loose  my 
band, 
But  the  finger  o'  God  abuve. 
Though  the  wee,  wee  cot  maun  be 
my  bield. 
And  my  claithing  e'er  so  mean, 
I  wad  lap  me  up  rich  i'  the  faulds  o' 
luve. 
Heaven's  armfu'  o'  my  Jean. 


180 


CUNNINGHAM. 


Her  white  arm  wad  be  a  pillow  for  me 

Far  saf ter  than  the  down ; 
And  luve  wad  winnow  owre  us  his 
kind,  kind  wings, 
An'  sweetly  I'd  sleep,  an'  soun'. 
Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  o'  my 
luve. 
Come  here,  and  kneel  wi'  me! 
The  morn  is  fu'  o'  the  presence  o' 
God, 
An'  I  canna  pray  without  thee. 

The  morn-wind  is  sweet  'mang  the 
beds  o'  new  flowers. 
The  wee  birds  sing  kindlie  an'  hie ; 
Our  gudeman  leans  owre  his  kale- 
yard dyke. 
And  a  blithe  auld  bodie  is  he. 
The  beuk  maun  he  taen  when  the 
carle  comes  hame, 
Wi'  the  holie  psalmodie; 
And  thou  maun  speak  o'  me  to  thy 
God, 
And  1  will  speak  o'  thee. 


SHE'S  GANE   TO  DWELL  IN 
HE  A  VEN. 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my 
lassie, 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven : 
Ye' re  owre  pure,  quo'  the  voice  o'  God, 

For  dwalling  out  o'  heaven ! 

O,  what' 11  she  do  in  heaven,  my  las- 
sie ? 
O,  what'il  she  do  in  heaven  ? 
She'll  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi'  an- 
gels' sangs. 
An'    make    them    mair  meet  for 
heaven. 

She  was  beloved  by  a',  my  lassie, 

She  was  beloved  by  a' ; 
But  an  angel  fell  in  love  wi'  her, 

An'  took  her  frae  us  a'. 

Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie, 

Low  there  thou  lies, 
A  bonnier  form  ne'er  went  to  the 
yird. 

Nor  fra  it  will  arise! 


Fu'  soon  I'll  follow  thee,  my  lassie, 

Yvl  soon  I'll  follow  thee; 
Thou  left  me  naught  to  covet  ahln' 

But  took  gudeness  sel'  wi'  thee. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my 
lassie, 

I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face; 
Thou  seemed  a  lily  new  cut  i'  the  bud, 

An'  fading  in  its  place. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my 
lassie, 
I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye ; 
An'    a  lovelier  light  in  the  brow  o' 
heaven 
Fell  time  shall  ne'er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my 
lassie, 
Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm; 
But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  o'  heav- 
en. 
To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There's  naught  but  dust  now  mine, 
lassie. 

There's  naught  but  dust  now  mine; 
My  Saul's  wi'  thee  i'  the  cauld  grave, 

An'  why  should  1  stay  behin'  ? 


A   WET  SHEET  AND  A   FLOWING 

SEA. 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast  — 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  our  lee. 

"  O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind! " 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry ; 
But  give  to  me  the  swelling  breeze, 

And  white  Avaves  heaving  high, — 
The  white  waves  heaving  high,  my 
lads. 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free ; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


CURTIS'^  DANA. 


181 


George  William   Curtis. 


MAJOR  AND  MINOn. 

A  BIRD  sang  sweet  and  strong 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree; 

He  sang,  —  "1  pour  out  my  soul  in 
song 
For  the  summer  that  soon  shall  be." 

But  deep  in  the  shady  wood 
Another  bird  sang,  —  "I  pour 

My  soul  on  the  solemn  solitude 
For  the    springs   that   return   no 
more." 


EGYPTIAN  SERENADE. 

SixG  again  the  song  you  sung, 
AV^hen  we  were  together  young  - 
When  there  were  but  you  and  I 
Underneath  the  summer  sky. 


Sing  the  song,  and  o'er  and  o'er. 
Though  I  know  that  nevermore 
Will  it  seem  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young. 


MUSIC  IN   THE  AIR. 

Oh,  listen  to  the  howling  sea, 
That  beats  on  the  remorseless  shore; 

Oh,  listen,  for  that  sound  shall  be. 
When  our  wild  hearts  shall  beat  no 
more. 

Oh,  listen  well,  and  listen  long! 

For,  sitting  folded  close  to  me, 
You  could  not  hear  a  sweeter  song 

Than  that  hoarse  munnur  of  the 
sea. 


Richard  Henry  Dana. 


THE  HUSBAND  AND   WIFE'S 
GRA  VE. 

Husband  and  wife !  no  converse  now 
ye  hold. 

As  once  ye  did  in  yom*  young  days  of 
love. 

On  its  alarms,  its  anxious  hours,  de- 
lays. 

Its  silent  meditations  and  glad  hopes, 

Its  fears,  impatience,  quiet  sympa- 
thies; 

Nor  do  ye  speak  of  joy  assured,  and 
bliss 

Full,  certain,  and  possessed.  Domes- 
tic cares 

Call  you  not  now  together.  Earnest 
talk 

On  what  your  children  may  be,  moves 
you  not. 

Ye  lie  in  silence,  and  an  awful  silence ; 

Not  like  to  that  in  which  ye  rested 
once 

Most  happy, — silence  eloquent,  when 
heart 


With  heart  held  speech,  and  your 

mysterious  frames, 
Harmonious,  sensitive,  at  every  beat, 
Touched  the  soft  notes  of  love. 

A  stillness  deep, 
Insensible,    unheeding,     folds    you 

round, 
And  darkness,  as  a  stone,  has  sealed 

you  in; 
Away  from  all  the  living,  here  ye  rest. 
In  all  the  nearness  of  the  narrow 

tomb. 
Yet  feel  ye  not  each  other's  presence 

now;  — 
Dread    fellowship  !  —  together,    yet 

alone. 


Wliy  is  it  that  I  linger  round  this 

tomb? 
What  holds  it?    Dust  that  cumbered 

those  I  mourn. 
They  shook  it  off,  and  laid   aside 

earth's  robes, 


18D 


DANA. 


And  put  on  those  of  light.     They'  re 

gone  to  dwell 
In  love,  —  their  God's  and  angels' I 

Mutual  love, 
That  bound  them   here,   no  longer 

needs  a  speech 
For  full  communion ;  nor  sensations, 

strong, 
Within  the  breast,  their  prison,  strive 

in  vain 
To  be  set  free,  and  meet  their  kind 

in  joy. 
Changed  to  celestials,  thoughts  that 

rise  in  each 
By  natures  new,  impart  themselves, 

though  silent. 
Each  quickening  sense,  each  throb 

of  holy  love. 
Affections   sanctified,   and   the   full 

glow  [one. 

Of  being,  which  expand  and  gladden 
By  union  all  mysterious,  thrill  and 

live 
In  both  immortal  frames;  —  sensa- 
tion all. 
And   thought,   pervading,    mingling 

sense  and  thought! 
Ye  paired,  yet  one!  wrapt  in  a  con- 
sciousness 
Twofold,  yet  single,  —  this  is  love, 

this  life! 


THE  SOUL. 

Come,  brother,  turn  with  me  from 

pining  thought 
And  all  the  inward  ills  that  sin  has 

wrought ; 
Come,  send  abroad  a  love  for  all  who 

live. 
And  feel  the  deep  content  in  turn 

they  give. 
Kind  wishes  and  good  deeds, — they 

make  not  poor; 
They  '11  home  again,  full  laden,  to  thy 

door; 
The  streams  of  love  flow  back  where 

they  begin. 
For  springs  of  outward  joys  lie  deep 

witliin. 
Even  let  them  flow,  and  make  the 

places  glad 


Where    dwell    thy    fellow  -  men. —• 
Shouldst  thou  be  sad. 

And  earth  seem  bare,  and  hours,  once 
happy,  press 

Upon  thy  thoughts,  and  make  thy 
loneliness 

More  lonely  for  the  past,  thou  then 
shalt  hear 

The  music  of  those  waters  running 
near; 

And  thy  faint  spirit  drink  the  cooling 
stream, 

And  thine  eye  gladden  with  the  play- 
ing beam 

That  now  upon  the  water  dances,  now 

Leaps  up  and  dances  in  the  hanging 
bough. 
Is  it  not  lovely?    Tell  me,  where 
doth  dwell 

The  power  that  wrought  so  beautiful 
a  spell? 

In  thine  own  bosom,  brother  ?  Then 
as  thine 

Guard  with  a  reverent  fear  this  power 
divine. 
And  if,  indeed,  'tis  not  the  out- 
ward state, 

But  temper  of  the  soul  by  which  w^e 
rate 

Sadness  or  joy,  even  let  thy  bosom 
move 

With  noble  thoughts  and  wake  thee 
into  love; 

And  let  each  feeling  in  thy  breast  be 
given 

An  honest  aim,  which,  sanctified  by 
Heaven, 

And  springing  i^/to  act,  new  life  im- 
parts. 

Till  beats  thy  frame  as  with  a  thou- 
sand hearts. 
Sin  clouds  the  mind's  clear  vision 
from  its  birth, 

Around    the    self-starved    soul    has 
spread  a  dearth. 

The  earth  is  full  of  life;  the  living 
Hand 

Touched  it  with  life ;  and  all  its  forms 
expand 

With  principles  of  being  made  to  suit 

Man's  varied  powers  and  raise  him 
from  the  brute. 

And  shall  the  earth  of  higher  ends  be 
full,— 


BE  MARE  ST. 


183 


Earth  which  thou  tread'st, — and  thy 

poor  mind  be  dull  ? 
Thou  talk  of  life,  with  half  thy  soul 

asleep  ? 
Thou  **  living  dead  man,"   let  thy 

spirit  leap 
Forth  to  the  day,  and  let  the  fresh 

air  blow 
Through  thy  soul's  shut-up  mansion. 

VVouldst  thou  know 
Something  of  what  is  life,  shake  off 

this  death;  [breath 

Have    thy   soul    feel    the    universal 
With  which  all  nature's  quick,  and 

learn  to  be  [see; 

Sharer  in  all  that  thou  dost  touch  or 


Break  from  thy  body's  grasp,  thy 
spirit's  trance; 

Give  thy  soul  air,  thy  faculties  ex- 
panse ; 

Love,  joy,  even  sorrow, — yield  thy- 
self to  all ! 

They  make  thy  freedom,  groveller, 
not  thy  thrall. 

Knock  off  the  shackles  which  thy 
spirit  bind 

To  dust  and  sense,  and  set  at  large 
the  mind! 

Then  move  in  sympathy  with  God's 
great  whole. 

And  be  like  man  at  first,  a  living 
soul. 


Mary  Lee  Demarest. 


MY  AIN  COUNT  REE. 

I'm  far  frae  my  hame,  an'  I'm  weary 

aftenwhiles, 
For  the  langed-f  or  hame-bringing,  an' 

my  Father's  welcome  smiles; 
I'll  ne'er  be  fu'  content,  until  mine 

een  do  see 
Tlie  shining  gates  o'  heaven,  an'  mine 

ain  countree. 

The  earth  is  flecked  wi'  flowers,  mony- 

tinted,  fresh,  an'  gay, 
The  birdies  warble  blithely,  for  my 

Father  made  them  sae ; 
But  these  sights  and  these  soun's  will 

as  naething  be  to  me, 
AVlien  I  hear  the  angels  singing  in  my 

ain  countree. 

I've  his  glide  word  of  promise  that 

some  gladsome  day,  the  King 
To  his  ain  royal  palace  his  banished 

hame  will  bring  : 
Wi'  een  an  wi'  hearts  runnin'  owre, 

we  shall  see 
The  King  in  his  beauty  in  our  ain 

countree. 

My  sins  hae  been  mony,  an'  my  sor- 
rows hae  been  sair, 

But  there  they'll  never  vex  me,  nor 
be  remembered  mair; 


His  bluid  has  made  me  white,  his 
hand  shall  dry  mine  e'e. 

When  he  brings  me  hame  at  last,  to 
my  ain  countree. 

Like  a  bairn  to  its  mither,  a  wee 

birdie  to  its  nest, 
I  wad  fain  be  ganging  noo,  unto  my 

Saviour's  breast: 
For  he  gathers  in  his  bosom,  witless, 

worthless  lambs  like  me, 
An'  carries  them  hinisel'  to  his  ain 

countree. 

He's  faithfu'   that   hath   promised, 

he'll  surely  come  again, 
He'll  keep  his  tryst  wi'  me,  at  what 

hour  I  dinna  ken; 
But  he  bids  me  still  to  wait,  and  ready 

aye  to  be 
To  gang  at  any  moment  to  my  ain 

countree. 

So  I'm  watching  aye  an'  singin'  o'  my 
hame  as  I  wait. 

For  the  soun'ing  o'  his  footfa'  this 
side  the  shining  gate; 

God  gie  his  grace  to  ilk  ane  wha  lis- 
tens noo  to  me. 

That  we  a'  may  gang  in  gladness  to 
our  ain  countree. 


184 


DE    VERE. 


Sir  Aubrey  De  Vere. 


MISSPENT  TIME. 

There  is  no  remedy  for  time  mis- 
spent ; 

No  healing  for  the  waste  of  idleness, 

Whose  very  languor  is  a  punish- 
ment 

Heavier  than  active  souls  can  feel  or 
guess. 

O  hours  of  indolence  and  discontent, 

Not  now  to  be  redeemed !  ye  sting  not 
less 

Because  I  know  this  span  of  life  was 
lent 

For  lofty  duties,  not  for  selfishness,  — 

Not  to  be  whiled  away  in  aimless 
dreams, 

But  to  improve  ourselves,  and  serve 
mankind. 

Life  and  its  choicest  faculties  were 
given. 

Man  should  be  ever  better  than  he 
seems, 

And  shape  his  acts,  and  discipline 
his  mind. 

To  walk  adorning  earth,  with  hope 
of  heaven.- 


COLUMBUS. 

He  was  a  man  whom  danger  could 

not  daunt,  |due; 

Nor  sophistry  perplex,  nor  pain  sub- 
A  stoic,  reckless  of  the  world's  vain 

taunt, 
And  steeled  the  path  of  honor  to  pur- 
sue; 
So,   when  by  all   deserted,  still  he 

knew 
How  best,  to  soothe  the  heart-sick, 

or  confront 
Sedition,  schooled  with  equal  eye  to 

view 
The  frowns  of  grief,  and  the  base 

pangs  of  want. 
But  when  he  saw  that  promised  land 

arise 
In  all  its  rare  and  bright  varieties, 
Lovelier  than  fondest  fancy  ever  trod ; 
Then  softening  nature  melted  in  his 

eyes; 
He   knew  his   fame  was   full,   and 

blessed  his  God; 
And  fell  upon  his  face,  and  kissed 

the  virgin  sod ! 


Aubrey  Thomas  De  Vere. 


[From  The  Poetic  Faculty.] 
POWER  OF  POESY. 

My  grief  or  mirth 

Attunes  the  earth, 
I  harmonize  the  world ! 

Remotest  times 

And  unfriendly  climes 
In  my  song  lie  clasped  and  curled! 

When  an  arm  too  strong 

Does  the  poor  man  wrong 
I  shout,  and  he  bursts  his  chain: 

But  at  my  command 

He  drops  the  brand ; 
And  I  sing  as  he  flings  the  grain. 

The  loved  draw  near, 

The  lost  appear; 


I  sweeten  the  mourner's  sigh: 

At  my  vesper  lay 

The  gates  of  day 
Close  back  with  harmony. 

No  plains  I  reap, 

I  fold  no  sheep 
Yet  my  home  is  on  every  shore: 

My  fancies  I  wing 

With  the  plumes  of  spring, 
And  voyage  the  round  earth  o'er. 

In  the  fight  1  wield 

Nor  sword  nor  shield. 
But  my  voice  like  a  lance  makes  wayj 

No  crown  I  bear. 

But  the  heads  that  Mear 
Earth's  crowns,  my  word  obey. 

Through  an  age's  night 

1  fling  the  light 


DE    VERE. 


185 


Of  my  brow  —  An  Argo  soon 
From  her  pine-wood  leaps 
On  the  untraeked  deeps ; 

And  the  dark  becomes  as  noon. 


THE  ANGELS  KISS  HER. 

The  angels  kiss  her  while  she  sleeps, 
And  leave  their  freshness  on  her 
breath : 
Star  after  star,  descending,  peeps 

Along  her  loose  hair,  dark  as  death, 
From  his  low  nest   the  night-wind 
creeps, 
And  o'er  her  bosom  wandereth. 

'Tis  morning:  in  their  pure  embrace 
The  airs  of  dawn  their  playmate 
greet: 

Dusk  fields  expect  their  wonted  grace. 
Those  silken  touches  of  swift  feet: 

With  songs  the  birds  salute  her  face; 
And  Silence  doth  her  voice  entreat ! 


BEXDING  BETWEEN  ME  AND  THE 
TAPER. 

Bending  between  me  and  the  taper 
While  o'er  the  harp  her  white  hands 
strayed, 

The  shadows  of  her  waving  tresses 
Above  my  hand  were  gently  swayed. 

With  every  graceful  movement  w^av- 
ing, 
I  marked  their  undulating  swell : 
I  watched  them  while  they  met  and 
parted. 
Curled  close  or  widened,  rose  or  fell. 

I  laughed  in  triumph  and  in  pleasure. 

So  strange  the  sport,  so  undesigned ! 

Her  mother  turned,  and  asked  me 

gravely, 
"  What  thought  was  passing  through 

my  mind?  " 

*Tis  Love  that  blinds  the  eyes  of 
mothers! 
*Tis  liOve  that  makes  the  young 
maids  fair! 


She  touched  my  hand ;  my  rings  she 
counted  — . 
Yet  never  felt  the  shadows  there! 

Keep,  gamesome  Love,  beloved  in^ 
fant! 

Keep  ever  thus  all  mothers  blind: 
And  make  thy  dedicated  virgins 

In  substance  as  in  shadow  kind ! 


HAPPY  ARE   THEY. 

Happy  are  they  who  kiss  thee,  morn 

and  even, 
Parting  the  hair  upon  thy  forehead 

white: 
For  them  the  sky  is  bluer  and  more 

bright, 
And  purer  their  thanksgivings  rise  to 

Heaven. 
Happy  are  they  to  whom  thy  songs 

are  given; 
Happy  are  they  on  whom  thy  hands 

alight: 
And   happiest   they  for  whom  thy 

prayers  at  night 
In  tender  piety  so  oft  have  striven. 
Away  with  vain  regrets  and  selfish 

sighs  — 
Even  1,  dear  friend,  am  lonely,  not 

unblest ; 
Permitted  sometimes  on  that  form  to 

gaze. 
Or  feel  the  light  of  those  consoling 

eyes  — 
If  but  a  moment  on  my  cheek  it 

stays 
I  know  that  gentle  beam  from  all  the 

rest! 


AFFLICTION. 

Count  each'affliction,  whether  light 
or  grave, 

God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee. 
Do  thou 

With  courtesy  receive  him:  rise  and 
bow: 

And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  thresh- 
old, crave 


186 


DE    VERB. 


Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to 

lave. 
Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast. 

Allow    . 
No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp   thy 

brow, 
Or  mar  thy  hospitality ;  no  wave 
Of  mortal  tunuilt  to  obliterate 
The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness.  Grief 

shoulil  be 
Like  joy,  majestic,  equable,  sedate; 
Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  mak- 
ing free ; 
Strong  to.  consume  small  troubles ;  to 

commend 
Great    thoughts,     grave     thoughts, 

thoughts  lasting  to  the  end. 


BEATITUDE. 

Blessed  is  he  who  hath  not  trod  the 

ways 
Of  secular  delights;  nor  learned  the 

lore 
Which  loftier  minds  are  studious  to 

abhor. 
Blessed  is  he  who  hath  not  sought  the 

praise 
That  perishes,  the  rapture  that  be- 
trays : 
Who  hath  not  spent  in  Time's  vain- 
glorious war 
His  youth :  and  found,  a  school-boy 

at  fourscore, 
How  fatal  are  those  victories  which 

raise 
Their    iron   trophies   to  a  temple's 

height 
On  trampled  Justice:  who  desires  not 

bliss. 
But  peace ;  and  yet  when  summoned 

to  the  fight, 
Combats  as  one  who  combats  in  the 

sight 
Of  God  and  of  His  angels,  seeking 

this  , 

Alone,  how  best  to  glorify  the  Right. 


THE  MOOD   OF  EXALTATION. 

What  man  can  hear  sweet  sounds 

and  dread  to  die  ? 
O  for  a  music  that  might  last  forever! 


Abounding  from  its  sources  like  a 
river 

Which  through  the  dim  lawns  streams 
eternally! 

Virtue  might  then  uplift  her  crest  on 
iHgh, 

Spurning  those  myriad  bonds  that 
fret  and  grieve  her: 

Then  all  the  powers  of  hell  would 
quake  and  quiver 

Before  the  ardors  of  her  awful  eye. 

Alas  for  man  with  all  his  high  de- 
sires, 

And  inward  promptings  fading  day 
by  day ! 

High-titled  honor  pants  while  it  ex- 
pires, 

And  clay-born  glory  turns  again  to 
clay. 

Low  instincts  last :  our  great  resolves 
pass  by 

Like  winds  whose  loftiest  psean  ends 
but  in  a  sigh. 


ALL    THINGS  SWEET   WHEN 
PRIZED. 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Crumbling  away  beneath  our  veiy 

feet: 
Sad  is  onr  life,  for  onward  it  is  flow- 
ing 
In  currant  unperceived,  because  so 

fleet: 
Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  were  sweet 

in  sowing. 
But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtopped 

the  wheat: 
Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet 

in  blowing  — 
And  still,  oh  still,  their  dying  breath 

is  sweet. 
And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath 

bereft  us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood 

sweeter  still : 
And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath 

left  us 
A  nearer  good  to  cure  an  older  ill : 
And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we 

learn  to  prize  them 
Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  who  grants 

them  or  denies  them ! 


DICKENS  —  DICKINSON. 


187 


Charles  Dickens. 


THE  IVY  GREEN. 

Oh  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old; 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I 
ween, 
In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  walls    must    be  crumbled,  the 
stones  decayed. 
To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years 
have  made 
Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Fast  he  ste^leth  on,  though  he  wears 

no  wings. 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he ! 

How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he 

clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak  tree ! 


And    slyly   he    traileth    along    the 
ground. 
And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves. 
And   he  joyously  twines  and  hugs 
around 
The  rich  mould    of    dead    men's 
graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works 
decayed, 
And  nations  scattered  been ; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past; 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can 
raise 
Is  the  Ivy'g  food  at  last. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 


Charles  M.  Dickinson. 


THE  CHILDREN. 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all 
ended, 
And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dis- 
missed. 
The  little  ones  gather  around  me. 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed ; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encir- 
cle 
My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace! 
Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heav- 
en. 
Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my 
face! 

And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dream- 
ing 
Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last; 
Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember. 
While  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the 
past, 


Ere    the  world  and  its  wickedness 
made  me 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin. 
When  the  gloiy  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a 
woman's. 
And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will 
flow, 
When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and 
stony. 
Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones 
must  go ; 
Of  the  moimtains  of  sin  hanging  o'er 
them. 
Of  the  tempest  of  Fate  blowing 
wild ; 
Oh!  there's  nothing  on  earth  half  sc 
holy 
As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child ! 


188 


DICKINSON. 


They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  house- 
holds, 
They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tres- 
ses, 
His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes ; 
Those  truants  from  home  and  from 
heaven  — 
They  have  made  me  more  manly 
and  mild ; 
And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could 
liken 
The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child ! 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones, 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done, 
But  that  life  may  have  just  enough 
shadow 
To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun 
I    would    pray   God  to  guard  them 
from  evil, 
But  my  prayer  would  bound  back 
to  myself ; 
Ah !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 
But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 
I  have  banished  the  rule  and  the 
rod; 
1  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of 
knowledge. 
They  have  taught  me  the  goodness 
of  God; 


My  heart  is  the  dungeon  of  darkness. 
Where  I  shut  them  for  breaking  a 
rule : 

My  frown  is  sufficient  correction; 
My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  au- 
tumn, 
To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more; 
Ah!  how  1  shall  sigh  for  the  dear 
ones, 
That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the 
door ! 
I  shall  miss  the  "  good-nights  "  and 
kisses,  fglee, 

And   the  gush  of  their  innocent 
The  group  on  the  green,   and  the 
flowers 
That  are  brought  every  morning 
for  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  even, 
Their  song  in  the  school  and  the 
street ; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their 
voices. 
And  the  tread  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended, 
And  death  says  "  The  school  is  dis- 
missed!" 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me 
To  bid  me  "good-night"  and  be 
kissed ! 


Mary  Lowe  Dickinson. 


IF   WE  HAD  BUT  A   DAY. 


We  should  fill  the  hours  with  the 
sweetest  things, 
If  we  had  but  a  day ; 
We  should  drink  alone  at  the  purest 
springs 
In  our  upward  way ; 
We  should  love  with  a  lifetime's  love 
in  an  hour. 
If  the  hours  were  few ; 
We  should  rest,  not  for  dreams,  but 
for  fresher  power 
To  be  and  to  do. 


We  should  guide  our  wayward    or 
wearied  wills 
By  the  clearest  light; 
We    should    keep  our  eyes  on  the 
heavenly  hills, 
If  they  lay  in  sight; 
We  should  trample  the  pride  and  the 
discontent 
Beneath  our  feet ; 
We    should    take  whatever  a  good 
God  sent, 
With  a  trust  complete. 


LOB 

ELL.                                           189 

We  should  waste    no-  moments    in 
weak  regret, 
If  the  day  were  but  one ; 
If  what  we  remember  and  what  we 
forget 
Went  out  with  the  sun; 

We  should  be  from  our  clamorous 
selves  set  free, 
To  work  or  to  pray, 
And  to  be  what  the  Father  would 
have  us  be, 
If  we  had  but  a  day. 

Sydney  Thompson   Dobell. 


AMERICA. 

Noft  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us ! 
Oye 

Who  north  or  south,  on  east  or  west- 
em  lands, 

Native  to  noble  sounds,  say  truth  for 
truth, 

Freedom  for  freedom,  love  for  love, 
and  God 

For  God.  O  ye,  who  in  eternal 
youth 

Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood 

This  universal  English,  and  do  stand 

Its  breathing  book;  live  worthy  of 
tliat  grand 

Heroic  utterance,  —  parted,  yet  a 
whole. 

Far,  yet  unsevered, —  children  brave 
and  free 

Of  the  great  mother-tongue,  and  ye 
shall  be 

Lords  of  an  empire  wide  as  Shakes- 
peare's soul. 

Sublime  as  Milton's  immemorial 
theme. 

And  ri«  h  as  Chaucer's  speech,  and 
fair  as  Spenser's  dream. 


HOME,    WOUNDED. 


Stay  wherever  you  will. 

By  the  mount  or  under  the  hill. 

Or  down  by  the  little  river: 

Stay  as  long  as  you  please. 

Give  me  only  a  bud  from  the  trees. 

Or  a  blade  of  grass  in  morning  dew. 

Or  a  cloudy  violet  clearing  to  blue, 

I  could  look  on  it  forever. 


Wheel,  wheel  tlirough  the  sunshine, 
Wheel,  wheel  througli  the  shadow ; 
There  must  be  odors  round  the  pine. 
There  must  be  balm  of   breathing 

kine. 
Somewhere  down  in  the  meadow. 
Must  I  choose?    Tlien  anchor  me 

tliere 
Beyond  the  beckoning  poplars,  where 
The  larch  is  snooding  her  flowery 

hair 
With  wreaths  of  morning  shadow. 
Among  the  thickest  hazels  of   the 

brake 
Perchance    some    nightingale    doth 

shake  [song ; 

His  feathers,  and  the  air  is  full  of 
In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young 

and  strong. 
He  used  to  sing  on  yonder  garden  tree, 
Beside  the  nursery. 

Along  my  life  my  length  I  lay, 
I  fill  to-morrow  and  yesterday, 
I  am  warm  with  the  suns  that  have 

long  since  set, 
I  am  yarm  with  the  summers  that  are 

not  yet. 
And  like  one  who  dreams  and  dozes 
Softly  afloat  on  a  sunny  sea, 
Two  worlds  are  whispering  over  me. 
And  there  blows  a  wind  of  roses 
From  the  backward  shore  to  the  shore 

before, 
From  the  shore  before  to  tlie  back- 
ward shore, 
And  like  two  clouds  that  meet  and  pour 
Each  through  each,  till  core  in  core 
A  single  self  reposes, 
The  nevermore  with  the  evermore 
Above  me  mingles  and  closes. 


190 


DOBSON. 


Austin   Dobson. 


THE  CHILD  MUSICIAN. 

He  had  played  for   his   lordship's 
levee, 
He  had  played  for  her  ladyship's 
whim, 
Till  the  poor  little  head  was  heavy. 
And  the  poor  little  brain   would 
swim. 

And  the  face  grew  peaked  and  eerie, 

And  the  large  eyes  strange   and 

bright, 

And  they  said, —  too  late, —  "He  is 

weary ! 

He  shall  rest  for  at  least  to-night!'' 

But  at  dawn,  when  the  birds  were 
waking. 
As    they    watched    in    the    silent 
room. 
With  the  sound  of  a  strained  cord 
breaking, 
A  something  snapped  in  the  gloom. 

'Twas  a  string  of  his  violoncello. 
And  they  heard  him  stir  in  his  bed : 

"  Make  room  for  a  tired  little  fellow, 
Kind  God!"  was  the  last  that  he 
said. 


THE  PRODIGALS. 

"  Princes  ! — and  you,  most  valorous 

Nobles  and  barons  of  all  degrees ! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us, 

Prodigals  driven  of  destinies ! 

Nothing  we  ask  of  gold  or  fees ; 
Harry  us  not  with  the  hounds,  we 
pray; 

Lo!  for  the  surcote's  hem  we  seize, 
Give  us,  ah !  give  us,  —  but  yester- 
day! 

"  Dames  most  delicate,  amorous ! 

Damosels  blithe  as  the  belted  bees! 
Beggars  are  we  that  pray  thee  thus, 

Beggars  outworn  of  miseries ! 

Nothing  we  ask  of  the  things  that 
please ; 
Wearj^  are  we,  and  old,  and  gray: 


Lo, —  for  we  clutch  and  we  clasp 
your  knees, — 
Give  us,  ah !  give  us, — but  yesterday ! 

"Damosels,  dames,  be  piteous!'" 
(But  the  dames  rode  fast  by  the 
roadway  trees.) 
"  Hear  us,  O  knights  magnanimous  I " 
(But  the    knights  pricked   on   in 

their  panoplies.) 
Nothing  they  gat  of  hope  or  ease, 
But  only  to  beat  on  the  breast,  and 
say,— 
"Life  we  drank  to  the  dregs  and 

lees; 
Give  us,  ah!  give  us,  —  but  yester- 
day!" 

ENVOY. 

Youth,  take  heed  to  the  prayer  of 
these ! 
Many  there  be  by  the  dusty  way, — 
Many  that  cry  to  the  rocks  and  seas, 
"Give  us,  ah!  give  us, —  but  yes- 
terday!" 


''FAREWELL,  RENOWN!" 

Farewell,  Renown!    Too  fleeting 

flower. 

That  grows  a  year  to  last  an  hpur;  — 

Prize  of  the  race's  dust  and  lieat, 

Too  often  trodden  under  feet,  — 

Why  should  1  court  your  "  barren 

dower"  ? 

Nay;  had  I  Dryden's  angry  power,  — 
The  thews  of   Ben, —the  wind  of 
Gower,  — 
Not  less  my  voice  should  still  repeat 
"  Farewell,  Renown ! " 

Farewell !— Because  the  Muses'  bower 

Is  filled  with  rival  brows  that  lower: — 

Because,  howe'er  his  pipe  be  sweet. 

The  Bard,  that "  pays,"  must  please 

the  street ;  — 

But  most .  .  .  because  the  grapes  are 

sour, — 

Farewell,  Renown ! 


BODQE, 


191 


Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


THE  HUM  AX  TIE. 

'■  As  if  life  were  uot  sacred,  too." 

GEouGE  Eliot. 

••  SPiiAK  tenderly!  For  he  is  dead," 
we  say ; 
•'  V7ith  gracious  hand  smooth  all 

his  roughened  past, 
.  And  fullest  measure  of  reward 
forecast, 

Forgetting  naught  that  gloried  his 
brief  day." 

Yet  of  the  brother,  who,  along  our 
way, 
Prone   with    his    burdens,   heart- 
worn  in  the  strife, 
Totters  before  us  —  how  we  search 
his  life, 

Censure,  and  sternly  punish,  while 
we  may. 

Oh,  weary  are  the  paths  of  Earth, 
and  hard! 

And  living  hearts  alone  are  ours  to 
guard. 

At  ieast,  begrudge  not  to  the  sore  dis- 
traught 

The  reverent  silence  of  our  pitying 
thought. 

Life,  too,  is  sacred ;  and  he  best  for- 
gives 

Who  says :  "  He  errs,  but  —  tenderly ! 
He  lives." 


MY  WINDOW-IVY, 

Over  my  window  the  ivy  climbs. 
Its  roots  are  in  homely  jars : 

But  all  the  day  it  looks  at  the  sun. 
And  at  night  looks  out  at  the  stars. 

The  dust  of  the  room  may  dim  its 
green. 
But  I  call  to  the  breezy  air: 
"  Come  in,  come  in,  good  friend  of 
mine! 
And  make  my  window  fair." 

So  the  ivy  thrives  from  morn  to  morn. 
Its  leaves  all  turned  to  the  light; 


And  it  gladdens  my  soul  with  its 
tender  green. 
And  teaches  me  day  and  night. 

What  though  my  lot  is  in  lowly  place. 
And  my  spirit  behind  the  bars; 

All  the  long  day  I  may  look  at  the 
sun, 
And  at  night  look  out  at  the  stars. 

What  though  the  dust  of  earth  would 
dim? 
There's  a  glorious  outer  air 
That  will  sweep  through  my  soul  if  I 
let  it  in. 
And  make  it  fresh  and  fair. 

Dear  God !  let  me  grow  from  day  to 
day. 
Clinging  and  sunny  and  bright! 
Though  planted  in  shade.  Thy  win- 
dow is  near. 
And  my  leaves  may  turn  to  the 
light. 


DEATH  IX  LIFE. 

She  sitteth  there  a  mourner, 

With  her  dead  before  her  eyes ; 
Flushed  with  the  hues  of  life  is  he 

And  quick  are  his  replies. 
Often  his  warm  band  touches  hers; 

Brightly  his  glances  fall; 
And  yet,  in  this  wide  world,  is  she 

The  loneliest  of  all. 

Some  mourners  feel  their  dead  return 

In  dreams,  or  thoughts  at  even ; 
Ah,  well  for  them  their  best-beloved 

Are  faithful  still  in  heaven! 
But  woe  to  her  whose  best  beloved, 

Though  dead,  still  lingers  near; 
So  far  away  when  by  her  side, 

He  cannot  see  nor  hear. 

With  heart  intent,  he  comes,  he  goes 

In  busy  ways  of  life. 
His  gains  and  chances  coimteth  he; 

His  hours  with  joy  are  rife. 


192 


DODGE. 


Careless  he  greets  her  day  by  day, 
Nor  thinks  of  words  once  said,  — 

Oh,  would  that  love  could  live  again, 
Or  her  heart  give  up  its  dead ! 


HEART-ORACLES. 

By  the  motes  do  we  know  where  the 
sunbeam  is  slanting; 
Through    the    hindering    stones, 
speaks  the  soul  of  the  brook; 

Past  the  rustle  of   leaves  we  press 
into  the  stillness; 
Through  darkness  and  void  to  the 
Pleiads  we  look; 

One  bird-note  at  dawn  with  the  night- 
silence  o'er  us, 

Begins  all  the  morning's  munificent 
chorus. 

Through  sorrow  come  glimpses  of 
infinite  gladness; 
Through  grand  discontent  mounts 
the  spirit  of  youth ; 

Loneliness  foldeth  a  wonderful  lov- 
ing; 
The   breakers  of  Doubt  lead  the 
great  tide  of  Truth  : 

And    dread    and    grief -haunted  the 
shadowy  portal 

That  shuts  from  our  vision  the  splen- 
dor immortal. 


THE  CHILD  AND   THE  SEA. 

One  summer  day,  when  birds  flew 
high, 

1  saw  a  child  step  into  the  sea; 
It  glowed  and  sparkled  at  her  touch 

And     softly    plashed     about    her 
knee. 
It  held  her  lightly  with  its  strength. 

It  kissed  and  kissed  her  silken  hair; 
It  swayed  with  tenderness  to  know 

A  little  child  was  in  its  care. 

She,  gleeful,  dipped  her  pretty  arms. 
And  caught  the   sparkles  in  her 
hands; 

I  heard  her  laughter,  as  she  soon 
Came  skipping  up  the  sunny  sands. 


"  Is  this  the  cruel  sea  ?  "  I  thought, 
"  The  merciless,  the  awful  sea  ?  "— 

Xow  hear  the  answer  soft  and  true. 
That  rippled  over  the  beach  to  me; 

"Shall  not  the  sea,  in  the  sun,  be 
glad 
When  a  child  doth  come  to  play  ? 
Had  it  been  in  the  storm-time,  what 
could  I, 
The  sea,  but  bear  her  away  — 
Bear  her  away  on  my  foaming  crest, 
Toss  her  and  hurry  her  to  her  rest  ? 

"  Be  it  life  or  death,  God  ruleth  me; 

And  he  loveth  every  soul ; 
I've  an  earthly  shore  and  a  heavenly 
shore, 
And  toward  them  both  I  roll ; 
Shining    and    beautiful,    both    are 
they,  — 
And  a  little  child  will  go  God's 
way." 


THE  STARS. 

They  wait  all  day  unseen  by  us,  un- 
felt; 
Patient  they  bide  behind  the  day's 

full  glare; 
And  we  who  watched  the  dawn 
when  they  were  there, 
Thought  we  had   seen  them  in  the 

daylight  melt. 
While  the  slow  sun  upon  the  earth- 
line  knelt. 
Because  the  teeming  sky  seemed 

void  and  bare, 
When  we  explored  it  through  tlie 
dazzled  air, 
We  had  no  thought  that  there  all 

day  they  dwelt. 
Yet  were  they  over  us,  alive  and  true. 
In  the  vast  shades  far  up  above  the 

blue,  — 
The    brooding    shades   beyond    our 
daylight  ken  — 
Serene  and  patient  in  their  con- 
scious light 
Ready  to  sparkle  for  our  joy  again, — 
The  eternal  jewels  of  the  short- 
lived niffht. 


DORR. 


193 


Julia  C.   R.   Dorr. 


WHAT  SHE   THOUGHT. 

Makion  showed    me   her    wedding 
gown 
And  her  veil  of  gossamer  lace  to- 
night, 
And  the  orange-blooms  that  to-mor- 
row morn 
Shall  fade  in  her  soft  hair's  golden 
light. 
But  Philip  came  to  the  open  door: 
Like    the    heart    of    a    wild-rose 
glowed  her  cheek, 
And  they  wandered  ofif  through  the 
garden  paths 
So  blest  that  they  did  not  care  to 
speak. 

1  wonder  how  it  seems  to  be  loved : 
To  know  you  are  fair    in    some 
one's  eyes; 
That   upon  some  one  your  beauty 
dawns 
Every  day  as  a  new  surprise ; 
To  know,  that,  whether  you  weep  or 
smile, 
Whether  your  mood  be  grave  or 
gay, 
Somebody  thinks  you,  all  the  while, 
Sweeter  than  any  flower  of  May. 

1  wonder  what  it  would  be  to  love : 
That,  I  think,  would  be  sweeter 
far. 
To  know  that  one  out  of  all  the  world 
Was  lord  of  your  life,  your  king, 
your  star. 
They  talk  of  love's  sweet  tumult  and 
pain: 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand. 
Though, —  a  thrill  ran  down  to  my 
finger-tips 
Once  when, — somebody, —  touched 
my  hand ! 

1  wonder  what  it  would  be  to  dream 

Of  a  child  that  might  one  day  be 

your  own;  [part, 

Of  the  hidden  springs  of  your  life  a 

Flesh   of  your  flesh,  and  bone  of 

your  bone. 


Marion  stooped  one  day  to  kiss 
A  beggar's    babe   with    a    tender 
grace ; 
While  some  sweet  thought,  like  a 
prophecy, 
Looked  from  her  pure  Madonna 
face. 

I  wonder  what  it  must  be  to  think 
To-morrow  will  be  your  wedding- 
day. 
And  you,  in  the  radiant  sunset  glow 
Down  fragrant  flowery  paths  will 
stray. 
As  Marion  does  this  blessed  night. 
With    Philip,    lost    in   a    blissful 
dream. 
Can  she  feel  his  heart  through  the 
silence  beat? 
Does  he  see  her  eyes  in  the  star- 
light gleam? 

Questioning  thus,  my  days  go  on ; 

But  never  an  answer  comes  to  me : 
All  love's  mysteries,  sweet  as  strange, 

Sealed  away  from  my  life  must  be. 
Yet  still  I  dream,  O  heart  of  mine ! 

Of  a  beautiful  city  that  lies  afar; 
And  there,  some  time,  I  shall  drop 
the  mask. 

And  be  shapely  and  fair  as  others 
are. 


AT  THE  LAST. 

WiT.L  the  day  ever  come,  I  wonder. 

When  I  shall  be  glad  to  know 
That  my  hands  will  be  folded  under 

The  next  white  fall  of  the  snow  ? 
To  know  that  when  next  the  clover 

Wooeth  the  wandering  bee. 
Its  crimson  tide  will  drift  ovei 

All  that  is  left  of  me  ? 

Shall  I  ever  be  tired  of  living, 
And  be  glad  to  go  to  my  rest, 

With  a  cool  and  fragrant  lily 
Asleep  on  my  silent  breast  ? 


194 


DORR. 


Will  my  eyes  grow  weary  of  seeing, 
As  the  hours  pass,  one  by  one, 

Till  1  long  for  the  hush  and  the  dark- 
ness 
As  1  never  longed  for  the  sun  ? 

God  knoweth !  Some  time,  it  may  be, 

1  shall  smile  to  hear  you  say: 
"Dear  heart!  she  will  not  waken 

At  the  dawn  of  another  day ! ' ' 
And  some  time,  love,  it  may  be, 

I  shall  whisper  under  my  breath : 
''  The  happiest  hour  of  my  life,  dear, 

Is  this, —  the  hour  of  my  death!" 


WHAT  NEED? 

**  What  need  has  the  singer  to  sing  ? 

And  why  should  your  poet  to-day 
His  pale  little  garland  of  poesy  bring, 

On  the  altar  to  lay  ? 
High-priests  of  song  the  harp-strings 

swept 
Ages  before  he  smiled  or  wept! " 

What  need  have  the  roses  to  bloom  ? 

And  why  do  the  tall  lilies  grow  ? 

And  why  do  the  violets  shed  their 

perfume 

When  night-winds  breathe  low  ? 

They  are  no  whit  more  bright  and 

fair  lair! 

Than  flowers  that  breathed  in  Eden's 

What  need  have  the  stars  to  shine 
on? 
Or  the  clouds  to  grow  red  in  the 
west, 
When  the  sun,  like  a  king,  from  the 
fields  he  has  won. 
Goes  grandly  to  rest  ? 
No  brighter  they  than  stars  and  skies 
That  greeted   Eve's  sweet,  wonder- 


mg  eyes 


What  need  has  the  eagle  to  soar 

So  proudly  straight  up  to  the  sun  ? 
Or  the  robin  such  jubilant  music  to 
pour 
When  day  is  begun  ? 
The  eagles  soared,  the  robins  sung, 
As  high,  as  sweet,  when  earth  was 
young! 


What  need,  do  you  ask  me  ?    Each 

day 
Hath  a  song  and  a  prayer  of  its 

own, 
As  each  June  hath  its  crown  of  fresh 

roses,  each  May 
Its  bright  emerald  throne ! 
Its  own  high  thought  each  age  shall 

stir, 
Each  needs  its  own  interpreter! 

And  thou,  O,  my  poet,  sing  on ! 

Sing  on  until  love  shall  grow  old ; 
Till  patience  and  faith  their  last  tri- 
umphs have  won. 
And  truth  is  a  tale  that  is  told! 
Doubt  not,  thy  song  shall  still  be  new 
While  life  endures  and  God  is  true ! 


PERAD  VENTURE. 

I  AM  thinking  to-night  of  the  little 
child 
That  lay  on  my  breast  three  sum- 
mer days, 
Then  swiftly,  silently,  dropped  from 
sight, 
While  my  soul  cried  out  in  sore 
amaze. 

It  is  fifteen  years  ago  to-night; 

Somewhere,  I  know,  he  has  lived 

them  through. 

Perhaps  with    never  a  thought    or 

dream  [knew ! 

Of    the    mother-heart    he    never 

Is  he  yet  but  a  babe  ?  or  has  he  grown 
To  be  like  his  brothers,  fair  and 
tall, 
With  a  clear  bright  eye,  and  a  spring- 
ing step, 
And  a  voice  that  rings  like  a  bugle 
call? 

I  loved  him.     The  rose  in  his  waxen 
hand 
Was  wet  with  the  dew  of  my  fall- 
ing tears; 
I  have  kept  the  thought  of  my  baby's 
grave 
Through  all  the  length  of  these 
changeful  years. 


DORR. 


195 


Yet  the  love  I  gave  him  was  not  like 
that 
I  give  to-day  to  my  other  boys, 
Who  have    grown  beside    me,   and 
turned  to  me 
In  all  their  griefs  and  in  all  their 
joys. 

Do  you  think  he  knows  it  ?    I  won- 
der much 
If  the  dead  are  passionless,  cold 
and  dumb; 
If   into  the  calm  of    the  deathless 
years 
No  thrill  of  a  human   love  may 
come! 

Perhaps  sometimes  from  the  upper 
air 
He  has  seen  me  walk  with    his 
brothers  three; 
Or  felt  in  the  tender  twilight  hour 
The  breath  of  the  kisses  they  gave 
to  me! 

Over  his  birthright,  lost  so  soon, 
Perhaps  he  has  sighed  as  the  swift 
years  flew; 
O  child  of  my  heart!  you  shall  find 
somewhere 
The  love  that  on  earth  you  never 
knew! 


THOU  KNOW  EST. 

Thou  knowest,  O  my  Father!    Why 
should  I 
Weary  high  heaven  with  restless 
prayers  and  tears  ! 
Thou  knowest  all !    My  heart's  unut- 
tered  cry 
Hath  soared  beyond  the  stars  and 
reached  Thine  ears. 

Thou  knowest, —  ah.  Thou  knowest! 
Then  what  need, 
O,  loving  God,  to  tell  Thee  o'er 
and  o'er. 
And  with  persistent  iteration  plead 
As  one  who  crieth  at  some  closed 
door  ? 


"Tease  not!"   we  mothers  to  our 
children  say, — 
"  Our  wiser  love'will  grant  whatever 
is  best." 
Shall  we.  Thy  children,  run  to  Thee 
alway, 
Begging  for  this  and  that  in  wild 
unrest  ? 

I  dare  not  clamor  at  the  heavenly 
gate. 
Lest  I  should  lose  the  high,  sweet 
strains  within; 
O,  Love  Divine !  I  can  but  stand  and 
wait 
Till  Perfect  Wisdom  bids  me  en- 
ter in ! 


FIVE. 


*'BuT  a  week  is  so  long! "  he  said, 
With  a  toss  of  his  curly  head. 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six, 
seven ! — 

Seven  whole  days !  Why,  in  six  you 
know 

(You  said  it  yourself, —  you  told  me 
so) 

The  great  God  up  in  heaven 

Made  all  the  earth  and  the  seas  and 
skies. 

The  trees  and  the  birds  and  the  but- 
terflies ! 

How  can  I  wait  for  my  seeds  to 
grow^  ?" 

"But  a  month  is  so  long!"  he 

said, 
With  a  droop  of  his  boyish  head. 
"  Hear  me  count, —  one,  two,  three, 

four, — 
Four  whole  weeks,  and  three  days 

more; 
Thirty-one  days,  and  each  will  creep 
As  the  shadows  crawl  over  yonder 

steep. 
Thirty-one  nights,  and  I  shall  lie 
Watching  the  stars  climb  up  the  sky! 
How  can  I  wait  till  a  month  is  o'er  V 

"But  a  year  is  so  long!"  he  said. 
Uplifting  his  brigh  t  young'  head. 


196 


DORR. 


"All  the  seasons  must  come  and  go 
Over  the  hill  with  footsteps  slow, — 
Autumn    and   winter,  summer  and 

spring; 
Oh,  for  a  bridge  of  gold  to  fling 
Over  the  chasm  deep  and  wide, 
That  I  might  cross  to  the  other  side. 
Where  she  is  waiting, —  my  love,  my 

bride!" 

"  Ten  years  may  be  long,"  he  said. 
Slow  raising  his  stately  head, 
*'  But  there's  much  to  win,  there  is 

much  to  lose ; 
A  man   must    labor,   a    man    must 

choose. 
And  he  must  be  strong  to  wait! 
The  years  may  be    long,   but  who 

would  wear 
The  crown  of  honor,  must  do  and 

dare! 
No  time  has  he  to  toy  with  fate 
Who  would  climb  to  manhood's  high 

estate!" 

"  Ah!  life  is  not  long!"  he  said. 
Bowing  his  grand  white  head. 

*'  One,   two,   three,  four,   five,   six, 
seven! 

Seven  times  ten  are  seventy. 

Seventy  years !  as  swift  their  flight 

As  swallows  cleaving  the  morning 
light, 

Or  golden  gleams  at  even. 

Life  is  short  as  a  summer  night, — 

How  long,  O  God  !  is  eternity  ?  " 


AT  DAWN. 

A-T  dawn  when  the  jubilant  morning 
broke. 
And  its  glory  flooded  the  mountain 
side, 
1  said,  "  "Tis  eleven  years  to-day, 
Eleven    years    since    my    darling 
died!" 


And  then  I  turned  to  my  household 
ways. 

To  my  daily  tasks,  without,  within, 
As  happily  busy  all  the  day 

As  if  my  darling  liad  never  been ! 

As  if  she  had  never  lived,  or  died! 
Yet  when  they  buried  her  out  of 
my  sight, 
I  thought  the  sun  had  gone  down  at 
noon, 
And  the  day  could  never  again  be 
bright. 

Ah,  well !  As  the  swift  years  come 
and  go. 

It  will  not  be  long  ere  I  shall  lie 
Somewhere  under  a  bit  of  turf, 

With  my  pale  hands  folded  quietly. 

And  then  some  one  who  has  loved 
me  well, — 
Perhaps  the  one  who  has  loved  me 
best, — 
Will  say  of  me  as  I  said  of  her, 
"  She  has  been  just  so  many  years 
at  rest,"  — 

Then  turn  to  the  living  loves  again, 
To  the  busy  life,  without,  within, 

And  the  day  will  go  on  from  dawn  to 
dusk. 
Even  as  if  1  had  never  been ! 

Dear  hearts!  dear  hearts!    It  must 
still  be  so! 
The  roses  will  bloom,  and  the  stars 
will  shine. 
And  the  soft  green  grass  creep  still 
and  slow, 
Sometime  over  a  grave  of  mine, — 

And  over  the  grave  in  your  hearts  as 
well ! 

Ye  cannot  hinder  it  if  ye  w^ould ; 
And  I, —  ah!  I  shall  be  wiser  then, — 

I  would  not  hinder  it  if  I  could ! 


DRAKE. 


197 


Joseph  Rodman   Drake. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain 
height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With    streakinss    of    the    morning 

light; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form. 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud. 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the 
storm. 
And     rolls    the    thunder-drum     of 

heaven; 
Child  of  the  sun!  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free. 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke. 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke. 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory! 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  ligh, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming 

on; 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet. 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-bom  glories  bum, 


And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the 
glance; 

And    when    the    cannon-mouihings 
loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the   battle- 
shroud. 

And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall. 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's 
pall; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow. 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  be- 
neath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale. 
Sweeps    darkly    round    the    bellied 

sail. 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  hack 
Before  the  broad-side's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven   and 

thee. 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and 
home, 
By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome. 
And  all  thy  hues  were  bom    in 
heaven. 
For  ever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 
Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls 
before  us, 
With  Freedom's    soil    beneath    our 
feet. 
And  Freedom's  banner  streaming 
o'er  us? 


198 


DBA  YTON  —  DB  UMMOND. 


Michael  Drayton. 


THE  PARTING. 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us 
kiss  and  part ; 
Nay,  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more 
of  me; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my 
heart 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can 
free; 
Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our 
vows ; 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time 
again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 


That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  re- 
tain.— 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest 
breath, 
When  his    pulse    failing,  Passion 
speechless  lies, 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of 
death. 
And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his 
eyes, 
Now  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have 

given  him  over. 
From  death  to  life  thou  might' st  him 
yet  recover. 


William   Drummond. 


DESPITE  ALL. 

I  KNOW  that  all  beneath  the  moon 

decays; 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is 

brought, 
In  time's  great  periods  shall  return 

to  nought; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights 

and  days. 
I  know  that  all  the  Muses'  heavenly 

lays, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dear- 
ly bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  fev/  or  none  are 

sought ; 
That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than 

vain  praise. 
I  know  frail  beauty's  like  the  pui-ple 

flower 
To  which  one  morn  oft  birth  and 

death  affords; 
That  love  a    jarring  is    of    mind's 

accords, 
Where  sense  and  will  bring  under 

reason's  power: 
Know  what  I  list,  this  all  cannot  me 

move,  [love. 

But  that,  alas !  I  both  must  write  and 


WHAT  WE   TOIL  FOR. 

Or  mortal  glory  O  soon  darkened 

ray! 
O  winged  joys  of  man,  more  swift 

than  wind! 
O  fond  desires,  which  in  our  fancies 

stray ! 
O  traitorous  hopes,   which  do    our 

judgments  blind! 
Lo,  in  a  flash  that  light  is  gone  away 
Which  dazzle  did  each  eye,  delight 

each  mind. 
And,  with  that  sun  from  whence  it 

came  combined. 
Now  makes  more  radiant  Heaven's 

eternal  day. 
Let  Beauty  now  bedew  her  cheeks 

with  tears; 
Let  widowed  Music  only  roar  and 

groan ; 
Poor  Virtue,   get    thee    wings    and 

mount  the  spheres. 
For  dwelling-place  on  earth  for  tlice 

is  none! 
Death  hath  thy  temple  razed,  Lovc'5; 

empire  foiled, 
The  world    of    honor,    worth,    and 

sweetness  spoiled. 


DRY  DEN.  199 


John   Dryden. 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST;  OR,   THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC, 
AN  ODE   m  HONOR  OF  ST.   CECILIA'S  DAY. 

*TwAS  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son: 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate  • 

On  his  imperial  throne: 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound; 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side,, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair, 

CHORUS. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


Timotheus  placed  on  high, 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir. 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love. ) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god: 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed : 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast: 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity !  they  shout  around : 
A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears. 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


200  dbyden: 


CHORUS. 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Aifects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  —  ever  fair  and  ever  young : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ; 
Sound  the  trumpets ;  beat  the  drums : 
Flu^ied  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  liis  honest  face; 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath.     He  comes !  he  comes  I 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings'  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure, 

Rich  the  treasure. 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes;  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse : 
He  sung  Darius,  great  and  good ; 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate. 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then  a  sigh  lie  stole; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


DRYDEN.  20| 


CHORUS. 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  helow; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
Wai*,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  oh,  think  it  worth  enjoying: 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee. 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again: 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

CHORUS. 

The  prince,  unabled  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again: 
At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder. 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head : 
As  awaked  from  the  dead. 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge !  revenge !  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  furies  arise ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair! 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  I 


202  DRYDEN. 


Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  nnburied  remain, 
Inglorious  on  the  plain : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy: 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way. 
To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy! 

CHORUS, 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy! 


Thus  long  ago. 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute. 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

GRAND  CHORUS. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies. 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 


DRY  DEN.  203 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.   CECILIA'S  DAY. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began : 

When  nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

"  Arise,  ye  more  than  dead." 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 
And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 
This  universal  frame  began : 
From  harmony  to  harmony. 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran. 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  corded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell. 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger, 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries,  "  Hark!  the  fo^  come; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat." 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovei*s, 
\yiiose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  viclins  complain 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation. 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion, 
For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 
But  oh !  what  art  can  teach. 
What  human  voice  can  reach, 
The  sacred  organ's  praise  ? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 


204 


DRY  DEN. 


Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race; 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place, 

ISequacious  of  the  lyre: 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared 

Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

GRAND   CHORUS. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 
The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above ; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 


UNDER    THE  PORTRAIT  OF  JOHN 
MILTON. 

[Pretixed  to  '•  Paradise  Lost."] 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages 
born, 

Greece,  Italy,  and  England,  did 
adorn. 

The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  sur- 
passed ; 

The  next  in  majesty;  in  both  the 
last, 

The  force  of  nature  could  no  further 
go; 

To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the 
former  two. 


{From  Religio  Laid.] 
THE  LIGHT  OF  REASON. 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon 
and  stars 

To  lonely,  weary,  wandering  travel- 
lers, 

Is  reason  to  the  soul :  and  as  on  high, 

Those  rolling  fires  discover  but  the 
sky. 

Not  light  us  here;  so  Reason's  glim- 
mering ray 

Was  lent,  not  to  assure  our  doubtful 
way, 


But  guide  us  upward  to  a  better  day. 

And  as  these  nightly  tapers  disappear, 

VMien  day's  bright  lord  ascends  our 
hemisphere; 

So  pale  grows  Reason  at  Religion's 
sight; 

So  dies,  and  so  dissolves  in  supernat- 
ural light. 


[From  Religio  Laid.] 

THE  BIBLE. 

If  on  the  book  itself  we  cast  our 
view. 

Concurrent  heathens  prove  the  story, 
true ; 

The  doctrine,  miracles;  which  must 
convince, 

For  Heaven  in  them  appeals  to  hu- 
man sense:  . 

And  though  they  prove  not,  they  con- 
firm the  cause. 

When  what  is  taught  agrees  with  na- 
ture's laws. 
Then  for  the  style,    majestic  and 
divine, 

It  speaks  no  less  than  God  in  every 
line: 

Commanding  words,  whose  force  is 
still  the  same 

As  the  first  fiat  that  produced  our 
frame. 


DRY  DEN, 


205 


All  faiths  beside,  or  did  by  arms  as- 
cend, 

Or  sense  indulged  has  made  mankind 
their  friend ; 

This  only  doctrine  does  our  lusts  op- 
pose : 

Unfed  by  nature's  soil,  in  which  it 
grows ; 

Cross  to  our  interests,  curbing  sense 
and  sin; 

Oppresseil  without,  and  undermined 
within, 

It  thrives  through  pain ;  its  own  tor- 
mentoi-s  tires; 

And  with  a  stubborn  patience  still 
aspires. 

To  what  can  Reason  such  effects  as- 
sign 

Transcending  nature,  but  to  laws 
divine  ? 

Which  in  that  sacred  volume  are 
contained ; 

Sufficient,  clear,  and  for  that  use  or- 
dained. 


{From  Religio  Laici.l 
JUDGMENT  IN  STUDYING  IT. 

The  unlettered  Christian,  who  be- 
lieves in  gross. 

Plods  on  to  heaven,  and  ne'er  is  at  a 
loss: 

For  the  strait-gate  would  be  made 
straiter  yet, 

Were  none  admitted  there  but  men 
of  wit. 

The  few  by  nature  formed,  with 
learning  fraught, 

Bom  to  instruct,  as  others  to  be 
taught, 

Must  study  well  the  sacred  page:  and 
see 

Which  doctrine,  this  or  that,  doth 
best  agree 

With  the  whole  tenor  of  the  work  di- 
vine; 

And  plainliest  points  to  Heaven's  re- 
vealed design: 

Which  exposition  flows  from  genuine 
sense; 

And  which  is  forced  by  wit  and  elo- 
quence. 


{From  lieliffio  Laid.] 

THE  AVOIDANCE   OF  RELIGIOUS 

DISPUTES. 

A  THOUSAND  daily  sects  rise  up  and 

die; 
A  thousand  more  the  perished  race 

supply; 
So  all  we  make  of  Heaven's  discov- 
ered will. 
Is,  not  to  have  it,  or  to  use  it  ill. 
The  danger's  much  the  same;   on 

several  shelves 
If  others  wreck  us,  or  we  wreck  our- 
selves. 
What'  then  remains,  but,  waiving 

each  extreme, 
The  tide  of  ignorance  and  pride  to 

stem  ? 
Neither  so  rich  a  treasure  to  forego, 
Nor  proudly  seek  beyond  our  power 

to  know:  • 
Faith  is  not  built   on   disquisitions 

vain: 
The  things  we  must  believe  are  few 

and  plain: 
But  since  men  will  believe  more  than 

they  need. 
And  evei7  man  will  make  himself  a 

creed, 
In  doubtful  questions  'tis  the  safest 

way 
To  learn  what  unsuspected  ancients 

say: 
For  'tis  not  likely  we  should  higher 

soar 
In  search  of   Heaven,  than  all  the 

Chm-ch  before : 
Nor  can  we  be  deceived,  unless  Ave 

see  Igree. 

The  Scripture  and  the  Fathers  disa- 
If  after  all  they  stand  suspected  still, 
(For  no  man's  faith  depends  upon 

his  will;) 
'Tis    some    relief,    that    points    not 

clearly  knoMTi, 
Without    much  hazard  may  be  let 

alone : 
And  after  hearing  what  our  Church 

can  say, 
If  still  our  reason  runs  another  way, 
That  private  reason  'tis  more  just  to 

curb,  (disturb. 

Than  by  disputes  the  public  peace 


206 


DRYDEN. 


For  points  obscure  are  of  small  use 
to  learn; 

But  common  quiet  is  mankind's  con- 
cern. 


{From  Eleonora.'] 
A    WIFE. 

A  WIFE  as  tender,  and  as  true 
withal, 

As  the  first  woman  was  before  her 
fall: 

Made  for  the  man,  of  whom  she  was 
a  part ; 

Made  to  attract  his  eyes,  and  keep 
his  heart. 

A  second  Eve,  but  by  no  crime  ac- 
cursed ; 

As  beauteous,  not  as  brittle  as  the 
first. 

Had  she  been  first,  still  Paradise  had 
been, 

And  death  had  found  no  entrance  by 
her  sin. 

So  she  not  only  had  preserved  from  ill 

Her  sex  and  ours,  but  lived  their  pat- 
tern still. 


[From  Eleonora.] 
CHARITY. 

Want  passed  for  merit  at  her  open 

door: 
Heaven  saw,  he  safely  might  increase 

his  poor. 
And  trust  their  sustenance  with  her 

so  well, 
As  not  to  be  at  charge  of  miracle. 
None  could  be  needy,  whom  she  saw 

or  knew ; 
All  in  the  compass  of  her  sphere  she 

drew. 
He,  who  could  touch  her  garment,  was 

as  sure. 
As  the  first  Christians  of  the  apostles' 

cure 
The  distant  heard,  by  fame,  her  pious 

deeds. 
And  laid  her  up  for  their  extremest 

needs ; 


A  future  cordial  for  a  fainting  mind; 
For,  what  was  ne'er  refused,  all  hoped 

to  find. 
Each    in    his  turn,   the  rich  might 

freely  come. 
As  to  a  friend;  but  to  the  poor,  'twas 

home. 
As  to  some  holy  house  the  aftlicted 

came, 
The  hunger-starved,  the  naked  and 

the  lame; 
Want  and  disease  both  fled  before 

her  name, 
For  zeal  like  hers  her  servants  were 

too  slow ; 
She  was  the  first,  where  need  required, 

to  go; 
Herself  the  fomidress  and  attendant 

too. 


[From  Eleonora.] 
BEAUTIFUL  DEATH. 

As  precious  gums  are  not  for  last- 
ing fire, 
They  but  perfume  the  temple,  and 

expire : 
So  was  she  soon  exhaled  and  van- 
ished hence ; 
A  short  sweet  odor  of  a  vast  expense. 
She  vanished,  we  can  scarcely  say 

she  died: 
For  but  a  now  did  heaven  and  earth 

divide: 
She    passed   serenely  with  a  single 

breath ; 
This  moment  perfect  health,  the  next 

was  death : 
One  sigh  did  her  eternal  bliss  assure; 
So  little  penance  needs,  when  souls 

are  almost  pure. 
As  gentle  dreams  our  waking  thoughts 

pursue ; 
Or,  one  dream  passed,  we  slide  into  a 

new; 
So  close  they  follow,  such  wild  order 

keep. 
We  think  ourselves  awake,  and  are 

asleep : 
So  softly  death  succeeded  life  in  her: 
She  did  but  dream  of  heaven,  and  she 

was  there. 


LRYDEN. 


207 


No  pains  she  suffered,  nor  expired 

with  noise; 
Her    soul   was  whispered    out  with 

God's  still  voice; 
As  an  old  friend  is  beckoned  to  a 

feast, 
And    treated    like    a    long-familiar 

guest. 
He  took  her  as  he  found,  but  found 

her  so, 
As  one  in  hourly  readiness  to  go: 
E'en  on  that  day,  in  all  her  trim  pre- 
pared ; 
As  early  notice  she  from  heaven  had 

heard ; 
And  some  descending  courier  from 

above  [move; 

Had  given  her  timely  warning  to  re- 
Or  counselled  her  to  dress  the  nuptial 

room. 
For  on  that  night  the  bridegroom  was 

to  come, 
He    kept  his  hour,  and  foimd  her 

where  she  lay 
Clothed  all  in  white,  the  livery  of  the 

day; 
Scarce  had  she  sinned  in  thought,  or 

word,  or  act; 
Unless  omissions  were  to  pass  for 

fact: 
That    hardly    death    a  consequence 

could  draw, 
To  make  her  liable  to  nature's  law. 
And,  that  she  died,  we  only  have  to 

show 
The  mortal  part  of  her  she  left  be- 
low: 
The  rest,  so  smooth,  so  suddenly  she 

went. 
Looked  like  translation  through  the 

firmament. 


iFrom  The  Character  of  a  Good  Parson.] 
THE  MODEL  PREACHER, 

Yet  of  his  little  he  had  some  to 

spare. 
To  feed  the  famished  and  to  clothe 

the  bare: 
For  mortified  he  was  to  that  degree, 
A  poorer  than  himself  he  would  not 

see. 


True  priests,  he  said,  and  preachers 

of  the  word, 
Were  only  stewards  of  their  sovereign 

Lord; 
Nothing  was  theirs;  but  all  the  public 

store : 
Intrusted  riches,  to  relieve  the  poor. 

The  proud  he  tamed,  the  penitent 

he  cheered ; 
Nor    to    rebuke    the    rich    offender 

feared ; 
His  preaching  much,  but  more  his 

practice  wrought 
(A  living  sermon  of  the  truths  he 

taught ) ; 
For  this  by  rules  severe  his  life  he 

squared, 
That    all    miglit    see  the    doctrines 

which  they  heard. 
For  priests,  he  said,  are  patterns  for 

the  rest; 
(The  gold  of  heaven,  wlio  bear  the 

God  impressed); 
But  when  the  precious  coin  is  kept 

unclean, 
The  sovereign's  image  is  no  longer 

seen. 
If  they  be  foul  on  which  the  people 

trust, 
Well  may  the  baser  brass  contract  a 

rust. 


\_From  Absalom  and  Achitophel.] 
THE   WIT. 

A  FIERY  soul,  which,  working  out  its 

way. 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay. 
And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of 

clay. 
A  daring  pilot  in  extremity; 
Pleased  with  the  danger,  when  the 

waves  went  high 
He  sought  the  storms ;  but,  for  a  calm 

unfit, 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to 

boast  his  wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near 

allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds 

divide. 


208 


DUNBAR  — EASTMAN. 


William   Dunbar. 


ALL  EARTHLY  JOY  RETURNS  IN  PAIN. 


Have    mind  that  age  aye  follows 

youth ; 
Death  follows  life  with  gaping  month, 
Devouring  fruit  and  flowering  grain 
All  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain. 

Came  never  yet  May  so  fresh  and 

green, 
But  January  came  as  wud  and  keen ; 


Was  never  such  drout  but  ance  came 

rain; 
All  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain, 


Since  earthly  joy  abydis  never, 
Work    for    the    joy  that  lasts    for« 

ever; 
For  other  joy  is  all  but  vain : 
All  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain. 


Charles   Gamage   Eastman. 


A   SNOW-STORM. 

'Tis  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter 
time. 
As  cold  as  it  ever  can  be ; 
The  roar  of  the  blast  is  heard  like 
the  chime 
Of  the  waves  of  an  angry  sea. 
The  moon  is  full,  but  her  silver  light 
The  storm  dashes  out  with  its  wings 

to-night ; 
And  over  the  sky  from  south  to  north, 
Not  a  star  is  seen  as  the  wind  comes 
forth 
In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 

All  day  had  the  snow  come  down  — 
all  day 
As  it  never  came  down  before ; 
And  over  the  hills,  at  sunset,  lay 

Some  two  or  three  feet,  or  more ; 
The  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of 

stone ; 
The  windows  blocked  and  the  well- 
curbs  gone; 
The  haystack  had  grown  to  a  moun- 
tain lift, 
And   the    wood-pile    looked    like    a 
monster  drift. 
As  it  lay  by  the  farmer's  door. 

Tiie  night  sets  in  on  a  world  of  snow. 
While  tL   air  grows  sharp  and  chill, 


And  the  warning  roar  of  a  fearful 
blow 
Is  heard  on  the  distant  hill ; 

And  the  Norther,  see!  on  the  moun- 
tain peak 

In  his  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe 
and  shriek! 

He  shouts  on  the  plain,  ho  ho !  ho  ho ! 

He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blind- 
ing snow. 
And  growls  with  a  savage  will. 

Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  found 

abroad. 

In  the  drifts  and  the  freezing  air, 

Lies  a  shivering  dog,  in  the  field,  by 

the  road. 

With  the  snow  in  his  shaggy  hair. 

He  shuts  his  eyes  to  the  wind  and 

growls ; 
He  lifts  his  head,  and  moans  and 
howls;  (sleet, 

Then  crouching  low,  from  the  cutting 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering 
feet — 
Pray  what  does  the  dog  do  there  ? 

A  farmer  came  from  the  village  plain. 
But  he  lost  the  travelled  way; 

And  for  hours  he  trod  with  might 
and  main 
A  path  for  his  horse  and  sleigh; 


ELIOT. 


209 


But  colder  still  the  cold  winds  blew, 
And    deeper    still    the    deep    drifts 

grew, 
And  his  mare,  a  beautiful  Morgan 

brown, 
At  last  in  her  struggles  floundered 

down. 
Where  a  log  in  a  hollow  lay. 

In  vain,  with  a  neigh  and  a  frenzied 
snort, 
She  plunged  in  the  drifting  snow, 
While    her    master    urged,    till    his 
breath  grew  short, 
With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow ; 
But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs 

were  tight; 
His  hands  were  numb  and  had  lost 

their  might; 
So  he  wallowed  back  to  his  half-filled 

sleigh. 
An  1  strove  to  shelter  himself  till  day, 
With  his  coat  and  buffalo. 

He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of 

the  rein, 
To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed ; 
And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast 

in  vain 
For  help  in  his  master's  need. 
For  awhile  he  strives  with  a  wistful 

cry 
To  catch  a  glance  from  his  drowsy 

eye, 


And  wags  his  tail  when  the  rude  winds 

flap 
The  skirt  of  the  buffalo  over  his  lap, 
And  whines  that  he  takes  no  heed. 

The  wind  goes  down  and  the  storm 
is  o'er  — 
'Tis  the  hour  of  midnight  past; 
The  old  trees  writhe  and  bend  no  more 

In  the  whirl  of  the  rushing  blast. 
The  silent  moon  with  her  peaceful 

light 
Looks  down  on  the  hills  with  snow 

all  white, 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's 
Hump,  [stump, 

The    blasted    pine  and  the  ghostly 
Afar  on  the  plain  are  cast. 

But  cold  and  dead  by  the  hidden  log 
Are  they  who  came  from  the  town : 

The  man  in  his  sleigh,  and  his  faith- 
ful dog, 
And  his  beautiful  Morgan  brown , 

In    the  wide  snow-desert,   far    and 
grand, 

With  his  cap  on  his  head  and  the 
reins  in  his  hand, 

The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's 
feet, 

And  the  mare  half  seen  through  the 
crusted  sleet. 
Where  she  lay  when  she  flomidered 
down. 


George  Eliot  (Marian  Evans  Cross). 


0  MAY  I  JOIX  THE   CHOIR 
INVISIBLE. 

O  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of    these    immortal    dead  who  live 

again 
In  minds  made  better  by  their  pres- 
ence; live 
In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity. 
In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
Of    miserable    aims    that   end  with 

self, 
In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the 
night  like  stars, 


And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge 

men's  minds 
To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world. 
Breathing  a  beauteous    order,   that 

controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life 

of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed  and 

agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred 

despair. 


210 


ELLIOT. 


Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be 

subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its 

child,  [solved; 

Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dis- 
Its    discords  quenched    by  meeting 

harmonies. 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning 

song. 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of 

the  world. 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better, —  saw 

within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  mul- 
titude, 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To    higher    reverence    more    mixed 

with  love, —  [Time 

That  better  self  shall  live  till  human 


Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human 

sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the 

tomb. 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 
Which    martyred    men    have    made 

more  glorious 
For  us,  who  strive  to  follow. 

May  I  reach 
That    purest    heaven, —  be  to  other 

souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great 

agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure 

love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty. 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  dif- 
fused. 
And-  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense ! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible. 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the 

world. 


Jane  Elliot. 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST, 

I've  heard  the  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 

Lasses  a-lilting  before  the  dawn  of  day; 
But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning— 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  buchts,  in  the  morning,  nae  blithe  lads  are  scorning, 
The  lasses  are  lonely,  and  dowie,  and  wae; 

Nae  daffin',  nae  gabbin',  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglen  and  hies  her  away. 

In  hairst,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering, 
The  bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray ; 

At  fair,  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  e'en,  at  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  are  roaming, 
'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play ; 

But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order  sent  our  lads  to  the  border 
The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day; 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  foucht  aye  the  foremosi. 
The  prime  o'  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  clay. 


ELLIOTT. 


•211 


We  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae; 

Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 
Tha  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


Ebenezer  Elliott. 


POOR  ANDREW. 

The  loving  poor !  —  So  envy  calls 

The  ever-toiling  poor: 
But  oh!   1  choke,  my  heart  grows 
faint. 

When  I  approach  my  door! 
Behind  it  there  are  living  things, 

Whose  silent  frontlets  say 
They'd  rather  see  me  out  than  in, — 

Feet  foremost  borne  away ! 
Ikly  heart  grows  sick  when  home  I 
come, — 

May  God  the  thought  forgive ! 
If  'twere  not  for  my  dog  and  cat, 

I  think  I  could  not  live. 

My  dog  and  cat,  w  hen  I  come  home. 

Run  out  to  welcome  me, — 
She  mewing,  with  her  tail  on  end. 

While  wagging  his  conies  he. 
They  listen  for  my  homeward  steps, 

My  smothered  sob  they  hear, 
When  down  my  heart  sinks,  deathly 
down. 

Because  my  home  is  near. 
My  heart  grows  faint  when  home  I 
come, — 

May  God  the  thought  forgive ! 
If  'twere  not  for  my  dog  and  cat, 

I  think  I  could  not  live. 

I'd  rather  be  a  happy  bird. 

Than,  scorned  and  loathed,  a  king; 
But  man  should  live  while  for  him 
lives 

The  meanest  loving  thing. 
Thou  busy  bee !  how  canst  thou  choose 

So  far  and  wide  to  roam  ? 
O  blessed  bee !  thy  glad  wings  say 

Thou  hast  a  happy  home ! 
But  I,  when  I  come  home, —  O  God! 

Wilt  thou  the  thought  forgive  ? 
If  'twere  not  for  my  dog  and  cat, 

I  think  I  could  not  live. 


Why  come  they  not  ?    They  do  not 
come 

My  breaking  heart  to  meet! 
A  heavier  darkness  on  me  falls, — 

1  cannot  lift  my  feet. 
Oh,  yes,  they  come! — they  never  fail 

To  listeii  for  my  sighs; 
My  poor  heart    brightens  when    it 
meets 

The  sunshine  of  their  eyes. 
Agam  they  come  to  meet  me, —  God ! 

Wilt  thou  the  thought  forgive  ? 
If  'twere  not  for  my  dog  and  cat, 

I  think  I  could  not  live. 

This  heart  is  like  a  churchyard  stone; 

My  home  is  comfort's  grave; 
My  playful  cat  and  honest  dog 

Are  all  the  friends  I  have; 
And    yet    my  house    is    filled  with 
friends, — 

But  foes  they  seem,  and  are. 
What  makes  them  hostile  ?    Igno- 
rance ; 

Then  let  me  not  despair. 
But  oh !  I  sigh  when  home  I  come, — 

May  God  the  thought  forgive ! 
If  'twere  not -for  my  dog  and  cat, 

I  think  I  could  not  live. 


THE  PRESS. 

God  said,—  " Let  there  be  light! " 
Grim  darkness  felt  his  might, 
And  fled  away; 
Then  startled  seas  and   mountains 

cold 
Shone  forth,  all  bright  in  blue  and 
gold, 
And  cried,— "'Tis  day!  'tis  day!" 
"  Hail,  holy  light!"  exclaimed 
The  thunderous  cloud  that  flamed 
O'er  daisies  white; 


212 


ELLIOTT, 


And  lo!  the  rose,  in  crimson  dressed, 
Leaned  sweetly  on  the  lily's  breast; 
And,      blushing,    murmured, — 
"Light!" 
Then  was  the  skylark  born ; 
Then  rose  the  embattled  corn ; 
Then  floods  of  praise 
Flowed  o'er  the  sunny  hills  of  noon; 
And  then,  in  stillest  night,  the  moon 
Poured  forth  her  pensive  lays. 
Lo,  heaven's  bright  bow  is  glad! 
Lo,  trees  and  flowers,  all  clad 
In  glory,  bloom ! 
And  shall  the  mortal  sons  of  God 
Be  senseless  as  the  trodden  clod, 
And  darker  than  the  tomb  ? 
No,  by  the  mind  of  man! 
By  the  swart  artisan ! 

By  God,  our  sire! 
Our  souls  have  holy  light  within; 
And  every  form  of  grief  and  sin 
Shall  see  and  feel  its  fire, 
By  earth,  and  hell,  and  heaven, 
The  shroud  of  soul3  is  riven! 
Mind,  mind  alone 
Is  light,  and  hope,  and  life,  and  powder ! 
Earth's    deepest    night,    from    this 
blessed  hour. 
The  night  of  minds,  is  gone ! 
''  The  Press!  "  all  lands  shall  sing; 
The  Press,  the  Press  we  bring. 
All  lands  to  bless: 
Oh,  pallid  Want!    Oh,  Labor  stark! 
Behold  we  bring  the  second  ark! 
The  Press !  the  Press !  the  Press ! 


THE  POET'S  PRAYER. 

Almighty    Father!   let    thy   lowly 
child, 
Strong  in  his  love    of    truth,  be 
wisely  bold, — 
A  patriot  bard,  by  sycophants  reviled. 
Let  him  live  usefully,  and  not  die 
old! 
Let  poor  men's  children,  pleased  to 
read  his  lays, 
Love,  for  his  sake,  the  scenes  where 
he  hath  been, 


And  when  he  ends  his  pilgrimage  of 
days. 
Let  him  be  buried  where  the  grass 
is  green. 
Where    daisies,    blooming    earliest, 
linger  late 
To  hear  the  bee  his  busy  note  pro- 
long; 
There  let  him  slumber,  and  in  peace 
await 
The  dawning  morn,  far  from  the 
sensual  throng, 
Who  scorn  the  windflower's  blush, 
the  redbreast's  lonely  song. 


NOT  FOR  NAUGHT. 

Do  and  suffer  naught  in  vain ; 

Let  no  trifle  trifling  be! 
If  the  salt  of  life  is  pain, 

Let  even   wrongs   bring   good    to 
thee ; 
Good  to  others  few  or  many, — 
Good  to  all,  or  good  to  any. 

If  men  curse  thee,  plant  their  lies 
Where  for  truth    they  best   may 
grow ; 

Let  the  railers  make  thee  wise. 
Preaching  peace  where'er  thou  go! 

God  no  useless  plant  hath  planted, 

Evil  —  wisely  used  —  is  wanted. 

If  the  nation-feedinj^  corn 
Thriveth  under  iced  snow ; 

If  the  small  bird  on  the  thorn 
Useth  well  its  guarded  sloe, — 

Bid  thy  cares  thy  comforts  double. 

Gather  fruit  from  thorns  of  trouble. 

See  the  rivers !  how  they  run. 
Strong    in   gloom,   and  strong  in 
light! 
Like  the  never-wearied  sun. 
Through  the  day  and  through  th€ 
night. 
Each  along  his  path  of  duty. 
Turning  coldness  into  beauty. 


EMERSON. 


213 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


ODE. 

O  TENDERLY  the  haughty  day 
Fills  his  bhie  urn  with  fire; 

One  morn  is  in  the  mighty  heaven, 
And  one  in  our  desire. 

The  cannon  booms  from  town   to 
town, 
Our  pulses  are  not  less. 
The   joy-bells   chime    their   tidings 
down, 
WTiich  children's  voices  bless. 

For  he  that  flung  the  broad  blue  fold 
O'er  mantling  land  and  sea, 

One  third  part  of  the  sky  unrolled 
For  the  banner  of  the  free. 

The  men  are  ripe  of  Saxon  kind 
To  build  an  equal  state, — 

To  take  the  statute  from  the  mind. 
And  make  of  duty  fate. 

United  States!  the  ages  plead, — 
Present  and  past  in  under-song, — 

Go  put  your  creed  into  your  deed. 
Nor  speak  with  double  tongue. 

For  sea  and  land  don't  understand. 
Nor  skies  without  a  frown 

See  rights  for  which  the  one  hand 
fights 
By  the  other  cloven  down. 

Be  just  at  home ;  then  write  yoiu*  scroll 

Of  honor  o'er  the  sea, 
And  bid  the  broad  Atlantic  roll 

A  ferry  of  the  free. 

And,  henceforth,  there  shall  be  no 
chain. 
Save  underneath  the  sea 
The  wires  shall  murmur  through  the 
main 
Sweet  songs  of  Liberty. 

The  conscious  stars  accord  above. 

The  waters  wild  below, 
And  under,  through  the  cable  wove, 

Her  fiery  errands  go. 


For  he  that  worketh  high  and  wise, 

Nor  pauses  in  his  plan, 
Will  take  the  sun  out  of  the  skies 

Ere  freedom  out  of  man. 


THE  PROBLEM. 

I  LIKE  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl; 
1  love  a  prophet  of  the  sold; 
And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains,   or  pensive 

smiles; 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 
Would  1  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  1  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His     awful     Jove     young    Phidias 

brought. 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning,  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 
Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old ; 
The  litanies  of  nations  came. 
Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame. 
Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe ; 
The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome. 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian 

Rome, 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity; 
Himself  from  God  he  could  rot  free ; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew;  — 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Knowest  thou  what  wove  yon  wood- 
bird's  nest 
Of    leaves,   and    feathers  from  her 

breast  ? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell  ? 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ? 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
WTiilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone; 


214 


EMERSON. 


And  morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids, 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids ; 
O'er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye; 
For  out  of  thought's  interior  sphere, 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air; 
And  nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These    temples   grew   as  grows  the 

grass ; 
Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 
The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 
To    the    vast    soul    that    o'er    him 

planned ; 
And  the  same  power  that  reared  the 

shrine 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless 

host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting 

choirs. 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  in- 
spires. 
The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken ; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 
In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind. 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise, — 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies, 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line. 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
1  see  his  cowle^l  portrait  dear; 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


THE  RHODORA. 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our 

solitudes, 
I  foimd  the  fresh  Rliodora  in  the 

woods, 


Spreading    its  leafless  blooms  in  a 

damp  nook. 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish 

brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made    the    black    water  with  their 

beauty  gay; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his 

plumes  to  cool. 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens 

his  array. 
Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth 

and  sky. 
Dear,   tell   them,  that  if  eyes  were 

made  for  seeing. 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for 

being: 
Why  thou  wert  there,  oh,  rival  of  the 

rose! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew : 
But  in  my  simjile  ignorance,  suppose 
The  selfsame  power  that  brought  me 

there,  brought  you. 


THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee. 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek ; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone. 
Thou  animated  ton-id-zone ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer. 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines: 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere ; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon; 
Epicurean  of  June; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south-wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 


THE    CONCORD    BRIDGE. 


Page  215. 


EMERSON. 


215 


Tints  the  Imman  countenance 
With  a  color  of  romance, 
An  J,  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 
Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 


Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours. 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers : 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  boimd 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure. 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure, 


Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen; 
But  violets  and  bilberry  bells. 
Maple-sap,  and  daffodils, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high. 
Succory  to  match  the  sky. 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey. 
Scented  fern  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder' s-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer. 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher ! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair. 
Sipping  only  wliat  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep; 
AVoe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us. 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


CONCORD  FIGHT. 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the 
flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here    once    the    embattled    farmers 
stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the 
world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  time  the  mined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  sea- 
ward creeps. 

On    this    green   bank,   by  this  soft 
stream. 
We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 
When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are 
gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,   and  leave  their  children 
free, 
Bid  tiriie  and  nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and 
thee. 


FORBEARANCE. 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  with- 
out a  gim  ? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on 
its  stalk  ? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and 
pulse  ? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart 
of  trust  ? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from 
speech  refrained. 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay  ? 

Oh,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to 
be  thine  I 


216 


FABER. 


Frederic  William   Faber. 


THE  RIGHT  MUST   WIN. 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  his  part 
Upon  this  battle-field  of  earth, 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart  ! 

He  hides  himself  so  wondrously, 
As  though  there  were  no  God ; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 


Or  he  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  we  need  him  most. 

Ill  masters  good,  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  gpod  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposes. 

Ah !  God  is  other  than  we  think ; 

His  ways  are  far  above. 
Far    beyond    reason's    height,    and 
reached 

Only  by  childlike  love. 

Workman  of  God !  oh,  lose  not  heart, 
But  learn  what  God  is  like; 

And  in  the  darkest  battle-field 
Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  blest  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  he 

Is  most  invisible. 

Blest,  too,  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie, 
And    dares   to   take   the   side    that 
seems 

Wrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God ; 

And  right  the  day  must  win ; 
To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty. 

To  falter  would  be  sin ! 


HARSH  JUDGMENTS. 

O  God!  whose  thoughts  are  brightesf 
light. 

Whose  love  runs  always  clear, 
To  whose  kind  wisdom,  sinning  souls. 

Amid  their  sins,  are  dear,  — 

Sweeten  my  bitter-thoughted  heart 

With  charity  like  thine. 
Till  self  shall  be  the  only  spot 

On  earth  that  does  not  shine. 

Hard-heartedness    dwells    not    with 
souls 
Round  whom  thine  arms  are  drawn ; 
And   dark   thoughts  'fade  away   in 
grace. 
Like  cloud-spots  in  the  dawn. 

Time  was  when  1  believed  that  wrong 

In  others  to  detect 
Was  part  of  genius,  and  a  gift 

To  cherish,  not  reject. 

Now,  better  taught  by  thee,  O  Lord ! 

This  truth  dawns  on  my  mind. 
The  best  effect  of  heavenly  light 

Is  earth's  false  eyes  to  blind. 

He  whom  no  praise  can  reach  is  aye 
Men's  least  attempts  approving; 

Whom  justice  makes  all-merciful, 
Omniscience  makes  all-loving. 

AVhen  we  ourselves  least  kindly  are. 
We  deem  the  world  unkind : 

Dark  hearts,  in  flowers  where  honey 
lies. 
Only  the  poison  find. 

How  Thou  canst  think  so  well  of  us. 

Yet  be  the  God  Thou  art. 
Is  darkness  to  my  intellect. 

But  sunshine  to  my  heart. 

Yet  habits  linger  in  the  soul; 

More  grace,  O  Lord!  more  grace; 
More  sweetne3S  from  thy  loving  heart, 

More  sunshine  from  thy  face ! 


FALCONER. 


Ill 


LOW  SPIRITS. 

Fever  and  fret  and  aimless  stir 

Aijd  disappointed  strife, 
All  chafing,  unsuccessful  things, 

Make  up  the  sum  of  life. 

Love  adds  anxiety  to  toil, 
And  sameness  doubles  cares, 

While  one  unbroken  chain  of  work 
The  flagging  temper  wears. 

The  light  and  air  are  dulled  with 
smoke ; 

The  streets  resound  with  noise; 
And  the  soul  sinks  to  see  its  peers 

Chasing  their  joyless  joys. 

Voices  are    round    me;    smiles  are 
near; 

Kind  welcomes  to  be  had ; 
And  yet  my  spirit  is  alone, 

Fretful,  outworn,  and  sad. 

A  weary  actor,  I  would  fain 

Be  quit  of  my  long  part; 
The  burden  of  unquiet  life 

Lies  heavy  on  my  heart. 

Sweet  thought  of  God!  now  do  thy 
work, 
As  thou  hast  done  before; 
Wake  up,  and  tears  will  wake  with 
thee. 
And  the  dull  mood  be  o'er. 


The  very  thinking  of  the  tliought 
Without  or  praise  or  prayer. 

Gives  light  to  know  and  life  to  do, 
And  marvellous  strength  to  bear. 

Oh,  there  is  music  in  that  thought. 

Unto  a  heart  unstrung, 
Like  sweet  bells  at  the  evening  time, 

Most  musically  rung. 

'Tis  not  His  justice  or  His  power, 

Beauty  or  blest  abode, 
But  the  mere  unexpanded  thought 

Of  the  eternal  God. 

It  is  not  of  His  wondrous  works, 

Not  even  that  He  is; 
Words  fail  it,  but  it  is  a  thought 

Which  by  itself  is  bliss. 

Sweet  thought,  lie  closer  to  my  heart  I 
Tlius  I  may  feel  thee  near. 

As  one  who  for  his  weapon  feels 
In  some  nocturnal  fear. 

Mostly    in    hours    of    gloom,    thou 
com'st. 

When  sadness  makes  us  lov/ly, 
4.S  though  thou  wert  the  echo  sweet 

Of  humble  melancholy. 

I  bless  Thee,   Lord,   for  this   kind 
check 

To  spirits  over-free' 
And  for  all  things  thau  make  me  fi^a^ 

More  helpless  need  of  Thee  I 


William   Falconer. 


[Frxmi  The  Shipwreck.] 
WRECKED  IN  THE   TEMPEST. 

And  now,  while  winged  with  ruin 
from  on  high. 

Through  the  rent  cloud  the  ragged 
lightnings  fly, 

A  flash  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves 
of  light. 

Struck  the  pale  helmsman  with  eter- 
nal night: 


Quick  to  the  abandoned  wheel  Arion 
came. 

The  ship's  tempestuous  sallies  to  re- 
claim. 

Amazed  he  saw  her,  o'er  the  sound- 
ing foam 

Upborne,  to  right  and  left  distracted 
roam.    , 

So  gazed  young  Phaeton,  with  pale 
dismay. 

When,  mounted  on  the  flaming  car 
of  day, 


21*8 


FALCONER. 


With   rash    and    impious   liand   the 

stripling  tried 
The  imnior:al  coursers  of  the  sun  to 

guide. 

Witli  mournful  look  the  seamen 
eyed  tlie  strand, 

Where  death's  inexorable  jaws  ex- 
pand ; 

Swift  from  their  minds  elapsed  all 
dangers  past, 

As,  dumb  with  terror,  they  beheld 
the  last. 

And  now,  lashed  on  by  destiny  se- 
vere. 

With  horror  fraught  the  dreadful 
scene  drew  near! 

The  ship  liangs  hovering  on  tlie  verge 
of  death. 

Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers 
roar  beneath ! 

In  vain,  alas!  the  sacred  shades  of 
yore. 

Would  arm  the  mind  with  philosophic 
lore;  [breath. 

In  vain  they'd  teach  us,  at  tlie  latest 

To  smile  serene  amid  the  pangs  of 
death. 

Even  Zeno's  self,  and  Epictetus  old, 

This  fell  abyss  liad  shuddered  to  be- 
hold. 

Had  Socrates,  for  godlike  virtue 
famed, 

And  wisest  of  the  sons  of  men  pro- 
claimed, 

Beheld  this  scene  of  frenzy  and  dis- 
tress, 

His  soul  had  trembled  to  its  last  re- 
cess! 

O  yet  confirm  my  heart,  ye  powers 
above. 

This  last  tremendous  shock  of  fate 
tOk  prove! 

The  tottering  frame  of  reason  yet 
sustain ! 

Nor  let  this  total  ruin  whirl  my  brain ! 

In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  pre- 
pared, 

For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult 
the  yard ; 

High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  hor- 
rid sliade, 

And  o'  er  her  burst,  in  terrible  cascade. 


Uplifted  on  tlie  surge,  to  heaven  she 

flies. 
Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the 

skies. 
Then  headlong  plunging  thunders  on 

the  ground, 
Earth  groans,  air  trembles,  and  the 

deeps  resound ! 
Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion 

feels. 
And  quivering  with  the  wound,  in 

torment  reels ; 


Again  she  plunges;  hark!  a  second 
shock 

Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  mar- 
ble rock! 

Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dis- 
mal cries. 

The  fated  victims  shuddering  roll 
their  eyes 

In  wild  despair;  while  yet  another 
stroke, 

With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid 
oak : 

Till,  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal 
cell 

The  lurking  demons  of  destruction 
dwell. 

At  length  asunder  torn  her  frame 
divides. 

And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the 
tides. " 


\_From  The  Shipiorecl:] 
A  SUNSET  PICTURE. 

The  sun's  bright  orb,  declining  all 
serene, 

N^ow  glanced  obliquely  o'er  the  wood- 
land scene; 

Creation  smiles  around  ;  on  every 
spray 

The  warbling  birds  exalt  their  even- 
ing lay; 

Blithe  skipping  o'er  yon  hill,  the 
fleecy  train 

Join  the  deep  chorus  of  the  lowing 
plain; 

The  golden  lime  and  orange  there 
were  seen 


FAWCETT. 


219 


On  fragrant  branches  of  perpetual 

green ; 
The  crystal  streams  that  velvet  mead- 
ows lave, 
To  the  green  ocean  roll  with  chiding 

wave. 
The  glassy  ocean,  hushed,  forgets  to 

roar ; 
But  trembling,  murmurs  on  the  sandy 

shore ; 
And,  lo!  his  surface  lovely  to  behold. 
Glows  in  the  west,  a  sea  of  living 

gold! 
While  all  above  a  thousand  liveries 

gay 
The  skies  with  pomp  ineffable  array. 


Arabian  sweets  perfume  the  happy 
plains; 

Above,  beneath,  around,  enchant' 
ment  reigns 

While  glowing  Vesper  leads  the  starry 
train, 

And  Night  slow  draws  her  veil  o'er 
land  and  main, 

Emerging  clouds  the  azure  east  in- 
vade. 

And  wrap  the  lucid  spheres  in  grad- 
ual shade; 

While  yet  the  songsters  of  the  vocal 
grove 

With  dying  numbers  tune  the  soul  to 
love. 


Edgar  Fawcett. 


IDEALS. 

O  Science,  whose  footsteps  wander, 

Audacious  and  unafraid, 
Wliere  the  mysteries  that  men  pon- 
der 
Lie  folded  in  awful  shade. 
Though  you  bring  us,  with  calm  defi- 
ance. 
Dear  gifts  from  the  bourns  you 
wing, 
There  is  yet,  O  undaunted  Science, 
One  gift  that  you  do  not  bring ! 

Shall  you  conquer  the  last  restriction 

That  conceals  it  from  you  now, 
And  come  back  with  its  benediction 

Like  an  aureole  on  your  brow  ? 
Shall  you  fly  to  us,  roamer  daring, 

Past  barriers  of  time  and  space, 
And  return  from  your  mission  bear- 
ing 

The  light  of  God  on  your  face  ? 

We  know  not,  but  still  can  treasure. 

In  the  yearjiings  of  our  suspense, 
Consolation  we  may  not  measure 

By  the  certitudes  of  Sense. 
For  Life,  as  we  long  and  question, 

Seems  to  speak,  while  it  hurries  by, 
Through  undertones  of  suggestion 

Immortality's  deep  reply. 


To  ears  that  await  its  token 

Perpetually  it  strays. 
Indeterminate,  fitful,  broken. 

By  the  discords  of  our  days. 
It  pierces  the  grim  disasters 

Of  clamorous  human  Hate, 
And  its  influence  overmasters 

All  the  ironies  of  Fate. 

The  icy  laugh  of  the  scorner 

Cannot  strike  its  echoes  mute ; 
It  cleaves  the  moan  of  the  mourner 

Like  a  clear  seolian  lute; 
At  its  tone  less  clear  and  savage 

Grows  the  anguish  of  farewell  tears, 
And  its  melody  haunts  the  ravage 

Of  the  desecrating  years. 

Philosophy  builds,  and  spares  not 

Her  finn,  laborious  power, 
But  her  lordly  edifice  wears  not 

Its  last  aerial  tower. 
For  the  quarries  of  Reason  fail  her 

Ere  the  structure's  perfect  scope, 
And  the  stone  that  would  now  avail 
her  [hope. 

Must   be   hewn  from  heights  of 

But  Art,  at  her  noblest  glory, 
Can  seem,  to  her  lovers  fond, 

As  divinely  admonitory 
Of  infinitudes  beyond. 


220 


FAWCETT. 


She  can  beam  upon  Earth's  abase- 
ments 

Like  a  splendor  flung  down  sublime 
Through  vague  yet  exalted  casements 

From  eternity  into  time. 

On  the  canvas  of  some  great  painter 

We  may-  trace,  in  its  varied  flame, 
Now  leaping  aloft,  now  fainter, 

As  the  mooi  uplifts  the  aim, 
That  impulse  by  whose  rare  presence 

His  venturing  brush  has  drawn 
Its  hues  from  the  efflorescence 

Of  a  far  Elysian  dawn. 

An  impassioned  watcher  gazes 

Where  the  faultless  curves  combine 
That  sculpture's  mightier  phases 

Imperially  enshrine, 
And  he  feels  that  by  strange  election 

The  artificer's  genius  wrought 
From  the  marble  a  pale  perfection 

That  is  paramount  over  thought. 

So  at  music  entranced  we  wonder, 

If  its  charm  the  spirit  seeks, 
When  with  mellow  voluminous  thun- 
der 

A  sovereign  maestro  speaks, 
Till  it  seems  that  by  ghostly  aidance 

Upraised  above  lesser  throngs. 
He  has  caught  from  the  stars  their 
cadence 

And  woven  the  wind  into  songs. 

More  than  all,  if  the  stately  brilliance 

Of  a  poet's  rapture  rise, 
Like  a  fountain  whose  full  resilience 

Is  lovely  against  fair  skies. 
Are  we  thrilled  with  a  dream  un- 
bounded 

Of  deeps  by  no  vision  scanned. 
That  conjecture  has  never  sounded 

And  conception  has  never  spanned. 

So  the  harvest  that  knowledge  misses, 

Intuition  seems  to  reap ; 
One  pauses  before  the  abysses 

That  one  will  delight  to  leap. 
One  balks  the  ruminant  sages, 

And  one  bids  the  world  aspire, 
While  the  slow  processional  ages 

Irreversibly  retire. 


WOUNDS. 

The  night-wind  sweeps  its  viewless 
lyre. 

And  o'er  dim  lands,  at  pastoral  rest, 
A  single  star's  white  heart  of  fire 

Is  throbbing  in  the  amber  west. 

I  track  a  rivulet,  while  1  roam. 
By  banks  that  copious  leafage  cools. 

And  watch  it  roughening  into  foam, 
Or  deepening  into  glassy  pools. 

And  where  the  shy  stream  gains  a 
glade 

That  willowy  thickets  overwhelm, 
I  find  a  cottage  in  tlie  shade 

Of  one  high  patriarchal  elm. 

Unseen,  I  mark,  well  bowered  from 
reach, 

A  group  the  sloping  lawn  displays, 
And  more  by  gestures  than  by  speech 

1  learn  their  converse  while  1  gaze. 

In  curious  band,  youth,  maid,  and 
dame, 
About   his   chair  they  throng   to 
greet 
A  gaunt  old  man  of  crippled  frame, 
Whose  crutch  leans  idle  at  his  feet. 

Girt  with  meek  twilight's  peaceful 

breath,  [fray, 

They  hear  of   loud,   tempestuous 

Of  troops  mown  down  like  wheat  by 

death, 

Of  red  Antietam's  ghastly  day. 

He  tells  of  hurts  that  will  not  heal ; 

Of  aches  that  nen^e  and  sinew  fret. 
Where  sting  of  shot  and  bite  of  steel 

Have  left  their  dull  mementos  yet ; 

And  touched  by  pathos,  filled  with 
praise. 

His  gathered  hearers  closer  press. 
To  pay  alike  in  glance  or  phrase. 

Response  of  pitying  tenderness. 

But  I,  who  note  their  kindly  will, 
Look  onward,  past  the  box-edged 
walk,  [still, 

Where  stands  a  woman,  grave  and 
Obhvious  of  their  fleeting  talk. 


FAWCEIT, 


221 


Her  listless  arms  droop  either  side; 

In  pensive  grace  her  brow  is  bent; 
Her  slender  form  leaves  half-descried 

A  sweet  fatigued  abandonment. 

An  J  while  she  lures  my  musing  eye, 
The  mournful  reverie  of  her  air 

Speaks  to  my  thought,  I  know  not 
why, 
In  the  stern  dialect  of  despair. 

Lone  wistful  moods  it  seems  to  show 
Of  anguish  borne  through  laggard 
years, 

VV^ith  outward  calm,  with  secret  flow 
Of  unalleviating  tears. 

Jt  breathes  of  duty's  daily  strife, 
When  jaded  effort  loathes  to  strive; 

Of  patience  lingering  firm,  when  life 
Is  tired  of  being  yet  alive. 

Enthralled  by  this  fair,  piteous  face. 
While  heaven  is  purpling  overhead. 

No  more  I  heed  the  old  soldier  trace 
How  sword  has  cut,  or  bullet  sped. 

I  dream  of  sorrow's  noiseless  fight. 
Where  no  blades  ring,  no  cannon 
roll. 
And  where  the  shadowy  blows  that 
smite 
Give  bloodless  wounds  that  scar 
the  soul ; 

Of  fate  unmoved  by  desperate  prayers 
From  those  its  plunderous  wrath 
lays  low; 
Of  bivouacs  where  the  spirit  stares 
At    smouldering    passion's    faded 
glow; 

And  last,  of  that  sad  armistice  made 
On  the  dark  field  whence  hope  has 
Add, 


'Ere  yet,  like  some  poor  ghost  unlaid, 
Pale  Memory  glides  to  count  her 
dead. 


THE  WOOD-TURTLE. 

Girt  with  the  grove's  aerial  sigh. 
In  clumsy  stupor,  deaf  as  fate. 

Near  this  coiled,  naked  root  you  lie, 
Imperviously  inanimate. 

Between  these  woodlands  where  we 
met, 
And  your  grim  languor,  void  of 
grace, 
My  glance,  dumb  sylvan  anchoret, 
Mysterious  kinsmanship  can  trace. 

For  in  your  checkered  shape  are  shown 
The  miry  black  of  swamp  and  bog. 

The  tawny  brown  of  lichened  stone. 
The  inertness  of  the  tumbled  log. 

But  when  you  break  this  lifeless  pause. 
And  from  your  parted  shell  out- 
spread 

A  rude  array  of  lumbering  claws, 
A  length  of  lean,  dark  snaky  head, 

I  watch  from  sluggish  torpor  start 
These    vital    signs,    uncouth    and 
strange. 
And  mutely  murmur  to  my  heart : 
"Ah  me!  how  lovelier  were  the 
change, 

"If  yonder  tough  oak,  seamed  with 

scars,' 
Could  give  some  white,  wild  fonn 

release. 
With  eyes  amid  whose  wistful  stars 
Burned     memories    of    immortal 

Greece  I" 


222 


FAY  —  FENNER. 


Anna   Maria   Fay. 


SLEEP  AND  DEATH. 

Oft  see  we  in  the  garish  round  of 
day 

A  danger-haunted  world  for  our 
sad  feet, 

Or  fear  we  tread  along  the  peopled 
street 

A  homeless  path,  an  uncompan- 
ioned  way. 
So  too  the  night  doth  bring  its  own 
array 

Of  darkling  terrors  we  must  singly 
meet, 

Each  soul  apart  in  its  unknown  re- 
treat, 

With    life    a    purposeless,   uncon- 
scious play. 
But   though    the    day  discovers    us 
afraid. 

Unsure  of  some  safe  hand  to  be 
our  guide. 

Rest  we  at  night,  as  if  for  each 
were  said, 


He  giveth  unto  His  beloved  sleep." 
Nought  less  than  all  do  we  in  sleep 

confide. 
And  death  but  needs  of  us  a  trust 

as  deep. 


RONDEL. 

When  love  is  in  her  eyes, 

What  need  of  Spring  for  me  ? 
A  brighter  emerald  lies 

On  hill  and  vale  and  lea. 
The  azure  of  the  skies 

Holds  nought  so  sweet  to  see. 
When  love  is  in  her  eyes, 

What  need  of  Spring  for  me  ? 

Her  bloom  the  rose  outvies. 
The  lily  dares  no  plea. 

The  violet's  glory  dies, 
No  flower  so  sweet  can  be ; 

When  love  is  in  her  eyes. 
What  need  of  Spring  for  me  ? 


Cornelius  George   Fenner. 


GULF-WEED. 

A  WEARY  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro. 

Drearily  drenched    in    the    ocean 
brine. 
Soaring  high  and  sinking  low, 

Lashed  along  without  will  of  mine; 
Sport  of  the  spume  of  the  surging  sea ; 

Flung  on  the  foam,  afar  and  anear, 
Mark  my  manifold  mystery, — 

Growth  and  grace  in  their  place 
appear. 

1  bear  round  berries,  gray  and  red, 
Rootless  and  rover  though  I  be; 
My    spangled    leaves,    when    nicely 
spread, 


Arboresce  as  a  trunkless  tree ; 
Corals  curious  coat  me  o'er. 

White  and  hard  in  apt  array ; 
'Mid  the  wild  waves'  rude  uproar, 

Gracefully  grow  I,  night  and  day. 

Hearts  there  are  on  the    sounding 
shore. 

Something  whispers  soft  to  me, 
Restless  and  roaming  for  evermore, 

Like  this  weary  weed  of  the  sea ; 
Bear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 

The  eternal  type  of  the  wondrous 
whole : 
Growth  unfolding  amidst  unrest, 

Grace  informing  with  silent  soul. 


FIELDS. 


223 


Annie   Fields. 


TO  SAPPHO. 

Daughter  of  Love!  Out  of  the  flow- 
ing river, 

Bearing  the  tide  of  life  upon  its  bil- 
low, 

Down  to  that  gulf  where  love  and 
song  together 

Sink  and  must  perish : 

Out  of  that  fatal  and  resistless  cur- 
rent. 

One  little  song  of  thine  to  thy  great 
mother, 

Treasured  upon  the  heart  of  earth 
forever. 

Alone  is  rescued. 

Yet  when  spring  comes,  and  weary  is 
the  spirit, 

When  love  is  here,  but  absent  is  the 
lover, 

And  life  is  liere,  and  only  love  is  dy- 
ing, 

Then  turn  we,  longing. 

Singer,  to  thee !  Through  ages  unf or- 
gotten ; 

Where  beats  the  heart  of  one  who  in 
her  loving 

Sang,  all  for  love,  and  gave  herself 
in  singing 

To  the  sea's  bosom. 


\From  The  Last  Contest  of  ^schylus.] 

YOUNG  SOPHOCLES    TAKING    THE 
PRIZE  FROM  AGED  .ESCHYLUS. 

But  now  the  games  succeeded,  then 
a  pause, 

And  after  came  the  judges  with  the 
scrolls ; 

Two  scrolls,  not  one,  as  in  departed 
years. 

And  this  saw  none  but  the  youth, 
Sophocles, 

Who  stood  with  head  erect  and  shin- 
ing eyes. 

As  if  the  beacon  of  some  promised 
land 

Caught  his  strong  vision  and  en- 
tranced it  there. 


Then  while  the  earth  made  mimicry 

of  heaven 
With    stillness,    calmly    spake    the 

mightiest  judge: 
"O  ^scliylus!    The  father  of  our 

song! 
Athenian  master  of  the  tragic  lyre 
Thou  the  incomparable !    Swayer  of 

strong  hearts! 
Immortal  minstrel  of  immortal  deeds! 
The  autumn  grows  apace,   and  all 

must  die; 
Soon    winter    comes,    and    silence. 

^schylus! 
After  that  silence  laughs  the  tuneful 

spring! 
Read' St  thou  our  meaning  through 

this  slender  veil 
Of    nature's    weaving?     Sophocles, 

stand  forth! 
Behold  Fame  calls  thee  to  her  loftiest 

seat. 
And  bids  thee  wear  her  crown.  Stand 

forth,  I  say!" 
Then,  like  a  fawn,  the  youthful  poet 

sprang 
From  the  dark  thicket  of  new  crowd- 
ing friends. 
And  stood,  a  straight,  lithe  form  with 

gentle  mien. 
Crowned  first  with  light  of  happiness 

and  youth. 

But  ^schylus,  the  old  man,  bending 

lower 
Under  this  new  chief  weight  of  all 

the  years, 
Turned  from  that  scene,  turned  from 

the  shouting  crowd. 
Whose  every  voice  wounded  his  dying 

soul 
With    arrows    poison-dipped,     and 

walked  alone. 
Forgotten,  under  plane-trees,  by  the 

stream. 
"The  last!  The  last!  Have  I  no  more 

to  do 
With  this  sweet  world !   Is  the  bright 

morning  now 
No  longer  fraught  for  me  with  crowd- 
ing song  ? 


£24 


FIELDS. 


Will  evening  bring  no  unsought  fruit- 
age home  ? 
Must  the  days  pass  and  these  poor 

lips  be  dumb, 
While   strewing  leaves    sing  falling 

through  the  air, 
And  autumn  gathers  in  her  richest 

fruit  ? 
Where  is  my  spring  departed?  Where, 

O  gods ! 
Within   my  spirit  still  the  building 

birds 
I  hear,  with  voice  more  tender  than 

when  leaves 
Are  budding  and  the  happy  earth  is 

gay. 

Am  I,  indeed,  grown  dumb  for  ever- 
more ! 

Take  me,   O  bark!   Take  me,  thou 
flowing  stream! 

Who  knowest  nought  of  death  save 
when  thy  waves 

Rush  to  new  life  upon  the  ocean's 
breast, 
thou  n 
world ! 


IFrom  Sophocles.] 

AGED    SOPHOCLES  ADDRESSING   THE 

ATHENIANS  BEFORE  READING  HIS 

(ED  IP  US  COLONEL'S. 

Bowed  half  with  age  and  half  with 

reverence,  thus, 
I,   Sophocles,   now  answer  to   your 

call; 
Questioned  have  I  the  cause  and  the 

reason  learned. 
Lo,  1  am  here  that  all  the  world  may 

see 
These  feeble  limbs  that  signal  of  de- 
cay! 
But,  know  ye,  ere  the  aged  oak  must 

die. 
Long  after  the  strong    years    have 

bent  his  form, 
The  spring  still  gently  weaves  a  leafy 

crown, 
Fresh  as  of  yore  to  deck  his  wintry 

head. 
And  now,  O  people  mine,  who  have 

loved  my  song, 


Ye  shall  be  judges  if  the  spring  have 

brought 
Late  unto  me,  the  aged  oak,  a  crown. 
Hear  ye  once  more,  ere  yet  the  river 

of  sleep 
Bear  me  away  far  on  its  darkening 

tide. 
The  music  breathed  upon  me  from 

these  fields. 
If  to  your  ears,  alas!  the  shattered 

strings 
Xo  longer  sing,  but  breathe  a  discord 

harsh, 
1  will  return  and  draw  this  mantle 

close 
About  my  head,  and  lay  me  down  to 

die. 
But  if  ye  hear  the  wonted  spirit  call. 
Framing  the  natural  song  that  fills 

this  world 
To  a  diviner  form,  then  shall  ye  all 

believe 
The  love  I  bear  to  those  most  near  to 

me 
Is    living    still,   and    living    cannot 

wrong ; 
To  me,  it  seems,  the  love  I  bear  to 

thee, 
Athens,  blooms  fresh  as  violets  in  yon 

wood. 
Making  new  spring  within  this  aged 

breast. 


AT  THE  FORGE. 


I  AM  Hephaistos,  and  forever  here 
Stand  at  the  forge  and  labor,  while  I 

dream 
Of  those  who  labor  not  and  are  not 

lame. 
I  hear  the  early  and  the  late  birds 

call. 
Hear  winter  whisper  to  the  coming 

spring. 
And  watch  the  feet  of  summer  danc- 
ing light 
For  joy  across  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Labor  endures,  but  all  of  these  must 

pass! 
And  ye  who  love  them  best,  nor  are 

condemned 


FIELDF.. 


225 


To  beat  the  anvil  through  the  sum- 
mer day, 
May  learn  the  secret  of  their  sudden 

flight; 
No  mortal  tongue  may  whisper  where 

they  hide, 
But  to  her  love,  half  nestled  lu  the 

grass, 
Earth  has  been  known  to  whisper  J'^w 

yet  clear 
Strange  consolation  for  the  wintry 

days. 
Oh,  listen  then,  ye  singers !  learn  and 

tell 
Those  who  must  labor  by  the  dusty 

way! 


PASSAGE  FROM  THE  PRELUDE. 

O  YOUTH  of  the  world, 

Thou  wert  sweet ! 

In  thy  bud 

Slept  nor  canker  nor  pain; 

In  the  blood 

Of  thy  grape  was  no  frost  and  no 

rain; 
Hove  thee!    I  follow  thy  feet! 


The  youth  of  my  heart, 

And  the  deathless  fire 

Leap  to  embrace  thee : 

And  nigher,  and  nigher, 

Through  the  darkness  of  grief  and 

the  smart, 
Thy  form  do  I  see. 

But  the  tremulous  hand  of  the  years 
Has  brought  me  a  friend. 
Beautiful  gift  beyond  price ! 
Beyond  loss,  beyond  tears! 
Hither  she  stands,  clad  in  a  veil. 
O  thou  youth  of  the  world ! 
She  was  a  stranger  to  thee, 
Thou  didst  fear  her  and  flee. 

Sorrow  is  her  name ; 
And  the  face  of  Sorrow  is  pale; 
But  her  heart  is  aflame 
With  a  fire  no  winter  can  tame. 
Her  love  will  not  bend 
To  the  storm, 
To  the  voices  of  pleasure. 
Nor  faint  in  the  arms  of  the  earth; 
But  she  f olloweth  ever  the  form 
Of  the  Master  whose  promise  is  sure, 
Who  knows  both  our  death  and  ouf 
birth. 


James  Thomas  Fields. 


MORNING  AND  EVENING  BY  THE 
SEA. 

At  dawn  the  fleet  stretched  miles 
away 

On  ocean-plains  asleep, — 
I'rim  vessels  waiting  for  the  day 

To  move  across  the  deep. 
So  still  the  sails  they  seemed  to  be 
W  hite  lilies  growing  in  the  sea. 

When  evening  touched    the  cape's 
low  rim, 
And  dark  fell  on  the  waves, 
We  only  saw  processions  dim 

Of  clouds,  from  shadowy  caves; 
These  were  the  ghosts  of  buried  ships 
GoDft    down    in   one   brief    hour's 
eclipse! 


THE  PERPETUITY  OF  SONG. 

It  was  a  blithesome  young  jongleur 

Who  started  out  to  sing. 
Eight  hundred  years  ago,  or  more. 

On  a  leafy  morn  in  spring; 
And  he  carolled  sweet  as  any  bird 

That  ever  tried  its  wing. 

Of  love  his  little  heart  was  full, — 

Madonna !  how  he  sang ! 
The  blossoms  trembled  with  delight, 

And  round  about  him  sprang. 
As  forth  among  the  banks  of  Loire 

The  minstrel's  music  rang. 

The  boy  had  left  a  home  of  want 
To  wander  up  and  down, 


226 


FIELDS, 


And  sing  for  bread  and  nightly  rest 

In  many  an  alien  town, 
And  bear  whatever  lot  befell, — 

The  alternate  smile  and  frown. 

The  singer's  carolling  lips  are  dust, 

And  ages  long  since  then 
Dead  kings  have  lain  beside   their 
thrones, 

Voiceless  as  common  men, — 
But  Gerald's  songs  are  echoing  still 

Through  every  mountain  glen ! 


IN  EXTREMIS. 

Oh,  the  soul-haunting  shadows  when 

low  he'll  lie  dying. 
And  the  dread  angel's  voice  for  his 

spirit  is  crying! 
Where  will  his  thoughts  wander,  just 

before  sleeping, 
When  a  chill  from  the  dark  o'er  his 

forehead  is  creeping  ? 
Will  he  go  on  beguiling, 
And  wantonly  smiling  ? 

'Tis  June  with  him  now,  but  quick 

Cometh  December; 
There's  a  broken  heart  somewhere 

for  him  to  remember, 
And  sure  as  God  liveth,  for  all  his 

gay  trolling, 
The  bell  for  his  passing  one  day  will 

be  tolling! 

Then  no  more  beguiling, 
False  vowing  and  smiling! 


A  PROTEST. 

Go,  sophist !  dare  not  to  despoil 
My  life  of  what  it  sorely  needs 

In  days  of  pain,  in  hours  of  toil, — 
The    bread    on    which    my  spirit 
feeds. 

You  see  no  light  beyond  the  stars, 
No  hope  oflasting  joys  to  come  ? 

I  feel,  thank  God,  no  narrow  bars 
Between  me  and  my  final  home ! 


Hence    with    your    cold    sepulchral 
bans, — 
The    vassal    doubts    Unfaith   has 
given! 
My    childhood's    heart    within    the 
man's 
Still  whispers  to  me,    "  Trust  in 
Heaven ! ' ' 


COURTESY. 

How  sweet  and  gracious,   even    in 

common  speech, 
Is  that  fine  sense  which   men  call 

Courtesy ! 
Wholesome  as  air  and  genial  as  the 

light, 
Welcome  in  every  clime  as  breath  of 

flowers, — 
It  transmutes    aliens    into    trusting 

friends. 
And  gives  its  owner  passport  round 

the  globe. 


A   CHARACTER. 

O  HAPPIEST  he,  whose  riper  years 

retain 
The  hopes  of  youth,  unsullied  by  a 

stain ! 
His  eve  of  life  in  calm  content  shall 

glide. 
Like  the  still  streamlet  to  the  ocean 

tide: 
No  gloomy  cloud  hkngs  o'er  his  tran- 
quil day; 
No  meteor  lures  him  from  his  home 

astray ; 
For  him  there  glows  with  glittering 

beam  on  high 
Love's  changeless  star  that  leads  him 

to  the  sky ; 
Still  to  the  past  he  sonietimes  turns 

to  trace 
The  mild  expression  of  a  mother's 

face, 
And  dreams,   perchance,   as  oft   in 

earlier  years, 
The  low,  sweet  music  of  her  voice  he 

hears. 


FINCH, 


22" 


FIRST  APPEARANCE   AT    THE  ODE  ON. 

"I  AM  Nicholas  Tacchinardi, —  hunchbacked,  look  you,  and  a  fright; 

Caliban  himself  might  never  interpose  so  foul  a  sight. 

Granted;  but  I  come  not,  masters,  to  exhibit  forai  or  size. 

Gaze  not  on  my  limbs,  good  people;  lend  your  ears,  and  not  your  eyes. 

I'm  a  sinner,  not  a  dancer, —  spare  me  for  a  while  your  din; 

Let  me  try  my  voice  to-night  here, —  keep  your  jests  till  1  begin. 

Have  the  kindness  but  to  listen, —  this  is  all  I  dare  to  ask. 

See,  I  stand  beside  the  footlights,  waiting  to  begin  my  task. 

If  I  fail  to  please  you,  curse  me, —  not  before  my  voice  you  hear, 

Thrust  me  not  from  the  Odeon.     Hearken,  and  I've  naught  to  fear." 

Then  the  crowd  in  pit  and  boxes  jeered  the  dwaif ,  and  mocked  his  shape ; 
Called  him  "monster,"  "  thing  abhorrent,"  citing,  "Off,  presumptuous  ape \ 
Off,  unsightly,  baleful  creature!  off,  and  quit  the  insulted  stage! 
Move  aside,  repulsive  figure,  or  deplore  our  gathering  rage." 

Bowing  low,  pale  Tacchinardi,  long  accustomed  to  such  threats, 
Burst  into  a  grand  bravura,  showering  notes  like  diamond  jets, — 
Sang  until  the  ringing  plaudits  through  the  wide  Ode'on  rang, — 
Sang  as  never  soaring  tenor  ere  behind  those  footlights  sang; 
And  the  hunchback,  ever  after,  like  a  god  was  hailed  with  cries, — 
'^  King  of  minstrels,  live  forever!    Sha)ne  on  fools  who  have  but  eyes!^* 


Francis  Miles  Finch. 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE   GRAY. 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river; 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  had  fled. 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass 
quiver. 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  Judgment-Day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  ^lory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat; 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory. 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  Judgment-Day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 
The  desolate  mourners  go, 


Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 
Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

AYaiting  the  Judgment-Day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor. 

The  morning  sun- rays  fall. 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  Judcrment-Day; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain. 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew: 

AVaiting  the  Judgment-Day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 


228 


FRENEAU—  GANNETT. 


Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
Tlie  generous  deed  was  done,- 
In  the  storm  of  the  years,  now  fad- 
ing, 
No  braver  battle  was  won: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew : 

Waiting  the  Judgment-Day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 


No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever. 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 
They  banish  om*  anger  forever 
When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  ou! 
dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  Judgment-Uay ; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue; 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


Philip  Freneau. 


MAY  TO  APRIL. 

Without  your  showers 

1  breed  no  flowers ; 
Each  field  a  barren  waste  appears ; 

If  you  don't  weep. 

My  blossoms  sleep. 
They  take  such  pleasure  in  your  tears. 

As  your  decay 

Made  room  for  May, 
So  I  must  part  with  all  that's  mine; 

My  balmy  breeze. 

My  blooming  trees. 
To  torrid  zones  their  sweets  resign. 


For  April  dead 

My  shades  I  spread. 
To  her  I  owe  my  dress  so  gay; 

Of  daughters  three 

It  falls  on  me 
To  close  our  triumphs  in  one  day. 

Thus  to  repose 

All  nature  goes; 
Month    after    month    must  find  its 
doom; 

Time  on  the  wing. 

May  ends  the  spring. 
And  summer  frolics  o'er  her  tomb. 


William   Channing   Gannett. 


LISTENING  FOR  GOD. 

I  HEAR  it  often  in  the  dark, 

I  hear  it  in  the  light, — 
Where  is  the  voice  that  calls  to  me 

With  such  a  quiet  might  ? 
It  seems  but  echo  to  my  thought, 

And  yet  beyond  the  stars ; 
It  seems  a  heart-beat  in  a  hush, 

And  yet  the  planet  jars. 

Oh,  may  it  be  that  far  within 

My  inmost  soul  there  lies 
A  spirit-sky,  that  opens  with 

Those  voices  of  surprise  ? 
And  can  it  be,  by  night  and  day. 

That  firmament  serene 
Is  just  the  heaven  where  God  himself, 

The  Father,  dwells  unseen  ? 


Oh,  God  within,  so  close  to  me 

That  every  thought  is  plain. 
Be  judge,  be  friend,  be  Father  still, 

And  in  thy  heaven  reign ! 
Thy    heaven    is    mine,  —  my    very 
soul ! 

Thy  words  are  sweet  and  strong; 
They  fill  my  inward  silences 

With  music  and  with  song. 

They  send  me  challenges  to  right. 

And  loud  rebuke  my  ill; 
They  ring  my  bells  of  victory. 

They  breathe  my  "  Peace,  be  still ! '' 
They  ever  seem  to  say,  "  My  child; 

Why  seek  me  so  all  day  ? 
Now  journey  inward  to  thyself, 

And  listen  by  the  way." 


GARRISON—  OASSAWAY, 


22a 


William   Lloyd  Garrison. 


THE  FREE  MIND. 

IIiQH  walls  and  huge  the  body  may 
confine, 

And  iron  gates  obstruct  the  prisoner's 
gaze, 

And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  de- 
sign, 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  de- 
vious ways ; 

But  scorns  the  immortal  mind  such 
base  control ; 

No  chains  can  bind  it  and  no  cell  en- 
close. 


Swifter  than  light  it  flies  from  polo 
to  pole, 

And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven 
it  goes. 

It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount,  from 
vale  to  vale 

It  wanders  plucking  honeyed  fruits 
and  flowers; 

It  visits  home  to  hear  the  fireside  tale 

And  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joy- 
ous hours ; 

'Tis  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar. 

And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star. 


Frank  H.  G  ass  a  way. 


BA  Y  BILL  Y. 

'TwASthe  last  fight  at  Fredericks- 
burg,— 
Perhaps  the  day  you  reck, 
Our  boys,  the  Twenty-Second  Maine, 

Kept  Early's  men  in  check. 
Just  where  Wade  Hampton  boomed 
away 
The  fight  went  neck  and  neck. 

All  day  the  weaker  wing  we  held, 

And  held  it  with  a  will. 
Five    several    stubborn    times    we 
charged 

The  battery  on  the  hill. 
And  five  times  beaten  back,  re-formed , 

And  kept  our  column  still. 

At  last  from  out  the  centre  fight. 

Spurred  up  a  general's  aid. 
"  That  battery  must  silenced  be! " 

He  cried,  as  past  he  sped. 
Our  colonel  simply  touched  his  cap. 

And  then,  with  measured  tread, 

To  lead  the  crouching  line  once  more 
The  grand  old  fellow  came. 

No  wounded  man  but  raised  his  head 
And  strove  to  gasp  his  name, 


And  those  who  could  not  speak  nor 
stir, 
"  God  blessed  him"  just  the  same. 

For  he  was  all  the  world  to  us, 

That  hero  gray  and  grim. 
Right  well  we  knew  that  fearful  slope 

We'd  climb  with  none  but  him, 
Though  while  his  white  head  led  the 
way 

We'd  charge  hell's  portals  in. 

This  time  we  were  not  half-way  up, 
When,  midst  the  storm  of  sholl. 

Our  leader,  with  his  sword  upraised, 
Beneath  our  bayonets  fell. 

And,  as  we  bore  him  back,  the  foe 
Set  up  a  joyous  yell. 

Our  hearts  went  with  him.     Back 
we  swept. 
And  when  the  bugle  said 
"Up,  charge,  again!"  no  man  was 
there 
But  hung  his  dogged  liearl. 
"We've  no  one  left  to  lead  us  now,'* 
The  sullen  soldiers  said. 

Just  then  before  the  laggard  line 
The  colonel's  horse  we  spied, 


230 


OASSAWAT. 


Bay  Billy  with  his  trappings  on, 
His  nostrils  swelling  wide, 

As  though  still  on  his  gallant  hack 
The  master  sat  astride. 

Right  royally  he  took  the  place 
That  was  of  old  his  wont. 

And  with  a  neigh  that  seemed  to  say, 
Above  the  battle's  brunt, 

"  How  can  the  Twenty-Second  charge 
If  I  am  not  in  front  ?  " 

Like  statues  rooted  there  we  stood, 

And  gazed  a  little  space, 
Above  that  floating  mane  we  missed 

The  dear  familiar  face. 
But  we  saw  Bay  Billy's  eye  of  fire, 

And  it  gave  us  heart  of  grace. 

No  bugle-call  could  rouse  us  all 
As  that  brave  sight  had  done, 

Down  all  the  battered  line  we  felt 
A  lightning  impulse  run. 

Up!  up  the  hill  we  followed  Bill, 
And  we  captured  every  gun  I 

And  when  upon  the  conquered  height 
Died  out  the  battle's  hum, 

Vainly  mid  living  and  the  dead 
We  sought  our  leader  dumb. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  spectre  steed 
To  win  that  day  had  come. 

And  then  the  dusk  and  dew  of  night 

Fell  softly  o'er  the  plain, 
As  though  o'er  man's  dread  work  of 
death 
The  angels  wept  again. 
And    drew    night's    curtain     gently 
round 
A  thousand  beds  of  pain. 

All  night  the  surgeons'  torches  went, 
The  ghastly  rows  between, — 

All  night  with  solemn  step  I  paced 
The  torn  and  bloody  green. 

But  who  that  fought  in  the  big  war 
Such  dread  sights  have  not  seen  ? 

At  last  the  morning  broke.    The  lark 
Sang  in  the  merry  skies, 


As  if  to  e'en  the  sleepers  there 

It  bade  awake,  and  rise ! 
Though  naught  but  that  last  trump 
of  all 

Could  ope  their  heavy  eyes. 

And  then  once  more  with  banners 

gay, 
-    Stretched  out  the  long  brigade. 
Trimly  upon  the  furrowed  field 
The  troops  stood  on  parade. 
And    bravely  mid    the  ranks  were 
closed 
The  gaps  the  fight  had  made. 

Not  half  the  Twenty-Second's  men 
Were  in  their  place  that  morn ; 

And  Corporal  Dick,  who  yester-noon 
Stood  six  brave  fellows  on. 

Now  touched  my  elbow  in  the  ranks, 
For  all  between  were  gone. 

Ah !  who  forgets  that  dreary  hour 
When,  as  with  misty  eyes. 

To  call  the  old  familiar  roll 
The  solemn  sergeant  tries, — 

One  feels  that  thumping  of  the  heart 
As  no  prompt  voice  replies. 

And  as  in  faltering  tone  and  slow 
The  last  few  names  were  said. 

Across  the  field  some  missing  horse 
Toiled  up  the  weary  tread. 

It  caught  the   sergeant's   eye,    and 
quick 
Bay  Billy's  name  he  read. 

Yes  I  there  the  old  bay  hero  stood. 
All  safe  from  battle's  harms, 

And  ere  an  order  could  be  heard. 
Or  the  bugle's  quick  alarms, 

Down  all  the  front,  from  end  to  end. 
The  troops  presented  arms ! 

Not  all  the  shoulder-straps  on  earth 
Could  still  our  mighty  cheer; 

And  ever  from  that  famous  day. 
When  rang  the  roll  call  clear. 

Bay    Billy's    name    was    read,    and 
then 
The  whole  line  answered,  '"  Here ! " 


OILBER. 


231 


Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


THERE  IS  NOTHING  NEW  UNDER 

THE  SUN. 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun; 

There  is  no  new  hope  or  despair; 
The  agony  just  begun 

Is  as  old  as  tlie  earth  and  the  air. 
My  secret  soul  of  bliss 

Is  one  witli  the  singing  star's, 
And  the  ancient  mountains  miss 

No  hurt  that  my  being  mars. 

I  know  as  I  know  my  life, 

I  know  as  I  loiow  my  pain. 
That  there  is  no  lonely  strife, 

That  he  is  mad  who  would  gain 
A  separate  balm  for  his  woe, 

A  single  pity  and  cover: 
The  one  great  God  I  know 

Hears  the  same  prayer  over  and 
over. 

I  know  it  because  at  the  portal 

Of  heaven  I  bowed  and  cried, 
And  I  said,  "  Was  ever  a  mortal 

Thus  crowned  and  crucified ! 
My  praise  thou  hast  made  my  blame ; 

My  best  thou  hast  made  my  worst ; 
My  good  thou  hast  turned  to  shame ; 

My  drink  is  a  flaming  thirst." 

But  scarce  ray  prayer  was  said 

Ere  from  that  place  I  turned ; 
I  trembled,  I  hung  my  head, 

My  cheek,  shame-smitten,  burned ; 
For  there  wliere  I  bowed  down 

In  my  boastful  agony, 
I  thought  of  thy  cross  and  crown, — 

O  Christ!  I  remembered  thee. 


THE  SOWER. 

A-  SOWER  went  forth  to  sow. 
His  eyes  were  dark  with  woe ; 
He  crushed  the  flowers  beneath  his 
feet,  [sweet, 

Nor  smelt  the  perfume  warm  and 
That  prayed  for  pity  everywhere. 
He  came  to  a  field  that  was  harried 


By  iron,  and  to  heaven  laid  bare: 
He  shook  the  seed  that  he  carried 
O'er  that  brown  and  bladelcss  place. 
He  shook  it,  as  God  shakes  hail 
Over  a  doomed  land, 
When  lightnings  interlace 
The  sky  and  the  earth,  and  his  wand 
Of  love  is  a  thunder  flail. 

Thus  did  that  sower  sow; 
His  seed  was  human  blood, 
And  tears  of  women  and  men. 
And  I,  who  near  him  stood, 
Said :  When  the  crop  comes,  then 
There  will  be  sobbing  and  sighing, 
Weeping  and  wailing  and  crying, 
Flame  and  ashes  and  woe. 

It  was  an  autumn  day 

When  next  I  went  that  way. 

And  what,  think  you,  did  I  see  ? 

^Vhat  was  it  that  I  heard  ? 

The  song  of  a  sweet-voiced  bird  ? 

Nay — but  the  songs  of  many, 

Thrilled   through    with    praise    and 

prayer. 
Of  all  those  voices  not  any 
Were  sad  of  memory : 
And  a  sea  of  sunlight  flowed. 
And  a  golden  harvest  glowed ! 
On  my  face  1  fell  do^^  n  there ; 
And  I  said :  Thou  only  art  wise  — 
God  of  the  eartli  and  skies ! 
And  I  thank  thee,  again  and  again. 
For  the  sower  whose  name  is  Pain. 


WEAL  AND    WOE. 

O  HIGHEST,  strongest,  sweetest  wom 
an-soul ! 
Thou  boldest  in  the  compass  of 

thy  grace 
All  the  strange  fate  and  passion  of 

thy  race; 
Of    the    old,    primal    curse    thou 
knowest  the  whole : 
Thine  eyes,  too  wise,  are  heavy  with 
the  dole. 
The  doubt,  the  dread  of  all  this 
human  maze ; 


232 


OILDER. 


Thou  in  the  virgin  morning  of  thy 

days 
Hast  felt  the  bitter  waters  o'er  tliee 

roll. 
Yet  thou  knowest,  too,  the  terrible 

delight, 
The    still    content,    and     solemn 

ecstasy ; 
Whatever  sharp,   svreet  bliss   thy 

kind  may  know. 
Thy  spirit  is  deep  for  pleasure  as  for 

woe  — 
Deep  as  the  rich,  dark-caverned, 

awful  sea 
That  the  keen-winded,  glimmering 

dawn  makes  white. 


TWO  LOVE  QUATRAINS. 

Not  from  the  whole  wide  world .  1 
choose  thee  — 
Sweetheart,  light  of  the  land  and 
the  sea ! 
The  wide,  wide  world  could  not  en- 
close thee. 
For  thou  art  the  whole  wide  world 
to  me. 


Years  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee 
first. 

And  I  know  thee  as  water  is  known 
of  thirst : 

Yet  I  knew  thee  of  old  at  the  first 
sweet  sight. 

And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  love,  to- 
night. 


WHAT  WOULD  I  SAVE   THEE 
FROM. 

What  would  I  save  thee  from,  dear 
heart,  dear  heart  ? 
Not  from  what  heaven  may  send 

thee  of  its  pain ; 
Not  from  fierce  sunshine  or  the 

scathing  rain : 
The   pang   of  pleasure;  passion's 
wound  and  smart; 
Not  from  the  scorn  and  sorrow  of 
thine  art; 


Nor  loss  of  faithful  f rends,  nof 

any  gain 
Of  growth  by  grief.     I  would  not 

thee  restrain 
From  needful  death.     But  oh,  thou 

other  part 
Of  me!  —  through  whom  the  whole 

world  I  behold. 
As  through  the  blue  I  see  the  stars 

above ! 
In    whom  the  world  I  find,   hid 

fold  on  fold! 
Thee  would  I  save  from  this  —  nay,  do 

not  move ! 
Fear  not,  it  may  not  flassh,  the  air 

is  cold; 
Save  thee  from  this  —  the  lightning 

of  my  love. 


/  COUNT  MY  TIME  BY  TIMES 
THAT  1  MEET  THEE. 

I   COUNT  my  time  by  times  that  I 

meet  thee; 
These  are  my  yesterdays,  my  mor- 
rows, noons. 
And  nights;  these  my  old  moons 

and  my  new  moons. 
Slow    fly    the  hours,   or  fast  the 

hours  do  flee, 
If  thou  art  far  from  or  art  near  to 

me: 
If  thou  art  far,  the  birds'  tunes 

are  no  tunes ; 
If  thou  art  near,  the  wintry  days 

are  Junes, — 
Darkness  is  light,  and  sorrow  can 

not  be. 
Thou  art  my  dream  come  true,  and 

thou  my  dream, 
The  air  I  breathe,  the  world  where- 
in I  dwell ; 
My  journey's  end  thou  art,   an  J 

thou  the  way ; 
Thou  art  what  I  would  be,  yet  only 

seem; 
Thou  art  my  heaven  and  thou  art 

my  hell ; 
Thou  art  my  ever-living  judgment' 

day. 


GILDER. 


233 


LOVE'S  JEALOUSY. 

AXD    WERE  THAT  BEST? 

Of  other  men  I  know  no  jealousy, 

And  were  that  best.  Love,  dreamless, 

Nor  of  the  maid  who  holds  thee 

endless  sleep  ? 

close,  oh,  close: 

Gone  all   the  fury  of  the  mortal 

But    of    the    June-red,    summer- 

day; 

scented  rose. 

The  daylight  gone,  and  gone  the 

And  of  the  orange-streaked  simset 

starry  ray! 

sky 

And  were  that  best,  Love,  rest  se- 

That wins  the  soul  of  thee  through 

rene  and  deep  ? 

thy  deep  eye; 

Gone  labor  and  desire;  no  arduous 

And  of  the  breeze  by  thee  beloved. 

steep 

that  goes 

To  climb,   no  songs  to  sing,   no 

O'er  thy  dear  hair  and  brow;  the 

prayers  to  pray, 

song  that  flows 

No  help  for  those  who  perish  by 

Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  where  it 

the  way. 

may  die. 

No  laughter  'midst  our  tears,  no 

J  would  1   were  one  moment  that 

tears  to  weep! 

sweet  show 

And  were  that  best.  Love,  sleep  with 

Of  flower;  or  breeze  beloved  that 

no  dear  dream. 

toucheth  all; 

Nor  memory  of  any  thing  in  life  ? 

Or  sky  that  through  the  summer 

Stark  death  that  neither  help  nor 

eve  doth  bum. 

hurt  can  know ! 

I  would  I  were  the  song  thou  lovestso, 

Oh,  rather,  Love,  the  sorrow-bring- 

At sound  of  me  to  have  thine  eye- 

ing gleam. 

lid  fall: 

The  living  day's  long  agony  and 

But  I  would  then  to  something 

strife ! 

human  turn. 

Rather  strong  love  in  pain, —  the 

waking  woe! 

A   THOUGHT. 

OxcE,  looking  from  a  window  on  a 

land 

THROUGH  LOVE  TO  LIGHT. 

That  lay  in  silence  underneath  the 

sun; 

Through  love  to  light!  Oh,  wonder- 

A land  of  broad,  green    meadows, 

ful  the  way 

through  which  poured 

That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  per- 

Two rivers,  slowly  winding  to  the 

fect  day! 

sea,— 

From  darkness  and  from  sorrow  of 

Thus,  as  I  looked,  I  know  not  how 

the  night 

or  whence, 

To  morning  that  comes  singing  o'er 

Was  borne  into  my  unexpectant  soul 

the  sea. 

That  thought,  late  learned  by  anx- 

Through  love    to    light!     Through 

ious-witted  man, 

light,  O  God,  to  thee. 

The  infinite  patience  of  the  Eternal 

Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal 

Mmd. 

light  of  light! 

234 


GOLDSMITH. 


Oliver   Goldsmith. 


iFrom  The  Deserted  Village.] 
THE   VILLAGE  PREACHER. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once 
the  garden  smiled, 

And  still  where  many  a  garden  flow  er 
grows  wili. 

There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the 
place  disclose, 

The  village  preacher's  modest  man- 
sion rose. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds 
a  year; 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly 
race. 

Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to 
change  his  place; 

Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for 
power 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  vary- 
ing hour ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned 
to  prize  — 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than 
to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  va- 
grant train ; 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  re- 
lieved their  pain. 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his 
guest, 

Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his 
aged  breast; 

The  ruined  spendtlirift,  now  no 
longer  proud. 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his 
claims  allowed; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to 
stay. 

Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night 
away  — 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of 
sorrow  done. 

Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed 
how  fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man 
learned  to  glow. 

And  quite  forgDt  their  vices  in  their 
woe; 


Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults 

to  scan. 
His  pity  gave,  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was 

his  pride. 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  vir- 
tue's side; 
But  in  his  duty,  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and 

felt  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment 

tries 
To  tempt   its  new-fledged  offspring 

to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull 

delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led 

the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life 
was  laid. 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns 
dismayed, 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At 
his  control 

Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  strug- 
gling soul ; 

Comfort  came  down  the  trembling 
wretch  to  raise, 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whis- 
pered praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaf- 
fected grace. 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable 
place ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with 
double  sway, 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  re- 
mained to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious 
man,  [ran ; 

With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic 

E'en  children  followed,  with  endear- 
ing wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the 
good  man's  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth 
exprest ; 


GOLDSMITH. 


235 


Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their 

cares  distressed ; 
To    them    his    heart,   his  love,   his 

griefs  were  given  — 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest 

in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful 

fonn. 
Swells   from  the  vale,  and  midway 

leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling 

clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 


[Fi-om  The  Deserted  Village.] 
THE   VILLAGE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that 

skirts  the  way, 
With    blossomed   furze  unprofitably 

gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled 

to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little 

school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to 

view  — 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant 

knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned 

to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning 

face; 
Full  well  they  laughed,  with  coun- 
terfeited glee. 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had 

he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling 

round. 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he 

frowned ; 
Yet  he  was  kind  —  or,  if  severe  in 

aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in 

fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he 

knew ; 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and 

cipher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and 

tides  presage, 


And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could 

gauge. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned 

his  skill, 
For,    e'en    though    vanquished,    he 

could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and 

thundering  sound 
Amazed    the    gazing  rustics  ranged 

around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the 

wonder  grew. 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all 

he  knew. 


[From  The  Deserted  Village.] 

THE   HAPPINESS    OF    PASSING  ONE'S 
AGE   IN  FAMILIAR   PLACES. 

In  all  ray  wanderings  round  this 

world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given 

my  sliare  — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to 

crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay 

me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the 

close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by 

repose ; 
I  still  had  hopes  —  for  pride  attends 

us  still  — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book- 
learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to 

draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and 

horns  pursue. 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at 

first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations 

past, 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at 

last. 

O  blest  retirement !   friend  to  life's 
decline! 
Retreat   from  care,  that  never  must 
be  mine! 


236 


GOLDSMITH. 


How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades 
like  these, 

A  youth  of  labor,  with  an  age  of  ease ; 

Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temp- 
tations try, 

And,  since 't  is  hard  to  combat,  learns 
to  fly! 

For  him  no  wretches,  bom  to  work 
and  weep. 

Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dan- 
gerous deep; 

No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the 
gate; 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter 
end. 

Angels  around  befriending  virtue's 
friend; 

Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived 
decay. 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the 
way ; 

And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to 
the  last, 

His  heaven  commences,  ere  the  world 
be  past. 


[From  The  Traveller.] 

FRANCE. 

Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and 
social  ease, 

Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the 
world  can  please. 

How  often  have  1  Ind  thy  sportive 
choir. 

With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  mur- 
muring Loire! 

Where  shading  elms  along  the  mar- 
gin grew. 

And  freshened  from  the  wave  the 
zephyr  flew; 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch, 
faltering  still, 

But  mocked  an  tune,  and  marred  the 
dancer's  skill. 

Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  won- 
drous power, 

And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide 
hour. 

Alike  all  ages :  dames  of  ancient 
days 


Have  led  their  children  through  the 

mirthful  maze, 
And    the  gay  grandsire,   skilled  in 

gestic  lore. 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of 

threescore. 
So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless 

realms  display, 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away : 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to 

mind  endear, 
For  honor  forms  the  social  temper 

here: 
Honor,  that  praise  which  real  merit 

gains 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand 

to  hand, 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the 

land : 
From  courts,  to  camps,  to  cottages  it 

strays. 
And    all  are  taught  an    avarice  of 

praise; 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give 

to  get  esteem. 
Till,    seeming   blest,   they    grow  to 

what  they  seem. 
But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss 

supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise; 
For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warm- 
ly sought. 
Enfeebles  all    internal    strength    of 

thought ; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  un- 

blest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's 

breast. 
Hence  Ostentation  here,  with  tawdry 

art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which 

fools  impart;  [ace, 

Here  Vanity  assumes  her  pert  grim- 
And  trims  her  robe  of  frieze  with 

copper  lace ; 
Here  beggar  Pride  defrauds  her  daily 

cheer. 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once 

a  year; 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting 

fashion  draws 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self- 
applause. 


OOODALE, 


231 


[From  The  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity.^ 

HOPE. 

The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to 
part. 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies; 
And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart, 

Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,   like  the  glimmering   taper's 
light, 

Adorns  and  cheers  the  way; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night. 

Emits  a  brighter  day. 


[From  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity.} 
THE  PROPHETS'  SONG. 

Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below, 
To  Him  we  turn  our  eyes; 

And  every  added  weight  of  woe, 
Shall  make  our  homage  rise. 


And  though  no  temple  richly  dressed, 

Nor  sacrifice  is  here; 
We'll  make  His  temple  in  our  breast, 

And  offer  up  a  tear. 


[From  The  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity. I 
MEMOR  Y. 

O  Memory!  thou  fond  deceiver, 
Still  importunate  and  vain. 

To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 
And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain! 

Then,  like  the  world,  the  oppressed 
oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's 
woe ; 
And  he  who  wants  each  other  bless- 
ing, 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 


Dora  Read  Goodale. 


RIPE  GRAIN. 

O    STILL,    white   face    of    perfect 
peace, 
Untouched  by  passion,  freed  from 
pain, — 
Ke  who  ordained  that  work  should 
cease, 
Took  to  Himself  the  ripened  grain. 


O  noble  face !  your  beauty  bears 
The  glory  that  is  wrung  from  pain, 

The  high  celestial  beauty  wears 
Of  finished  work,  of  ripened  grain. 

Of  human  care  y»u  left  no  trace. 
No  lightest  trace  of  grief  or  pain,— 

On  earth  an  empty  form  and  face  — 
In  Heaven  stands  the  ripened  graia 


Elaine  Goodale. 


ASHES  OF  ROSES. 


Soft  on  the  sunset  sky 

Bright  daylight  closes. 
Leaving,  when  light  doth  die. 
Pale  hues  that  mingling  lie, — 
Ashes  of  roses. 


When  Love's  warm  sun  is  set, 

Love's  brightness  closes; 
Eyes  with  hot  tears  are  wet, 
In  hearts  then  linger  yet 
Ashes  of  roses. 


238 


GOULD. 


Hannah  Flagg  Gould. 


THE  SOUL'S  FAREWELL. 

It  must  be  so,  poor,  fading,  mortal 
thing! 
And  now  we  part,  thou  pallid  form 
of  clay! 
Thy  hold  is  broken  —  I  unfurl  my 
wing; 
And  from  the  dust  the  spirit  must 
away! 

As  thou  at  night,  hast  thrown  thy 
vesture  by, 
Tired  with  the  day,  to  seek  thy 
wonted  rest, 
Fatigued  with  time's  vain  round,  'tis 
thus  that  I 
Of  thee,  frail  covering,  myself  di- 
vest. 

Thou  knowest,  while  journeying  in 
this  thorny  road. 
How  oft  we've  sighed  and  strug- 
gled to  be  twain ; 
How  I  have  longed  to  drop  my  earth- 
ly load. 
And  thou,  to  rest  thee  from  thy 
toil  and  pain. 

Then  he,  who  severs  our  mysterious 
tie, 
Is  a  kind  angel,  granting  each  re- 
lease ; 
He'll    seal    thy    quivering    lip    and 
sunken  eye. 
And  stamp  thy  brow  with  ever- 
lasting peace. 

When  thou  hast  lost  the  beauty  that  I 
gave. 
And  life's  gay  scenes  no  more  will 
give  thee  place, 
Thou  may'st  retire  within  the  secret 
grave. 
Where  none  shall  look  upon  thine 
altered  face. 

But  I  am  summoned  to  the  eternal 
throne, 
To  meet  the  presence  of  the  King 
most  high; 


I  go  to  stand  unshrouded  and  alone. 
Full  in  the  light  of  God's  all-search« 
ing  eye. 

There  must  the  deeds  which  we  to« 
gether  wrought, 
Be  all  remembered  —  each  a  wit  ■ 
ness  made ; 
The  outward  action  and  the  secret 
thought 
Before  the  silent  soul  must  there 
be  weighed. 

Lo!  I  behold  the  seraph  throng  de- 
scend 
To  waft  me  up  where  love  and 
mercy  dwell ; 
Away,  vain  fears!  the  Judge  will  be 
my  friend; 
It  is  my  Father  calls  —  pale  clay, 
farewell  I 


A  NAME  m  THE  SAND. 

Alone  I  walked  the  ocean  strand; 
A  pearly  shell  was  in  my  hand : 
I  stooped  and  wrote  upon  the  sand 

My  name  —  the  year — the  day. 
As  onward  from  the  spot  I  passed. 
One  lingering  look  behind  I  cast: 
A  wave  came  rolling  high  and  fast. 

And  washed  my  lines  away. 

And  so,  methought,  'twill  shortly  be 
With  every  mark  on  earth  from  me : 
A  wave  of  dark  oblivion's  sea 

Will  sweep  across  the  place 
Where  I  have  trod  the  sandy  shore 
Of  time,  and  been  to  be  no  more, 
Of  me  —  my  day  —  the  name  I  bore. 

To  leave  nor  track  nor  trace. 

And  yet,  with  Him  who  counts  the 

sands, 
And  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands, 
I  know  a  lasting  record  stands, 

Inscribed  against  my  name, 

Of  all  this  mortal  part  has  wrought ; 

Of  all  this  thinking  soul  has  thought , 

And  from  these    fleeting    momenta 

caught 

For  glory  or  for  shame. 


QRAHAME, 


239 


James  Grahame 

iFrom  The  Sabbath.] 
SABBATH  MORNING. 


How  still  the  morning  of  the  hal- 
lowed day! 

Mute  is  the  voice  of   rural    labor, 
hushed 

The    ploughboy's  whistle    and   the 
milkmaid's  song. 

The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy 
wreath 

Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading 
flowers, 

That  yester-morn    bloomed  waving 
in  the  breeze. 

Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the 
ear, —  the  hum 

Of   early  bee,  the   trickling  of  the 
dew, 

The  distant  bleating  midway  up  the 
hill. 

Calmness  seems  throned  on  yon  un- 
moving  cloud. 

To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland 
leas, 

The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower 
from  the  dale ; 

And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  glad- 
some lark 

Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song;  the 
lulling  brook 

Murmurs    more    gently    down    the 
deep-sunk  glen; 

While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose 
curling  smoke 

O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  in- 
tervals 

The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song 
of  praise. 
With  dove-like  wings  Peace  o'er 
yon  village  broods : 

The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests;  the 
anvil's  din 

Hath  ceased ;  all,  all  around  is  quiet- 
ness. 

Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping 
hare 


Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and 

looks  on  man. 
Her   deadliest    foe.     The    toil-worn 

horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at 

large; 
And,  as  his  stiff  imwieldy  bulk  he 

rolls. 
His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in.  the 

morning  ray. 
But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest 

enjoys. 
Hail,  Sabbath !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor 

man's  day. 
On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is 

doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely,  the 

ground 
Both  seat  and  board,  screened  from 

the  winter's  cold 
And  summer's  heat  by  neighboring 

hedge  or  tree ; 
But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his 

home, 
He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those 

he  loves; 
With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the 

heartfelt  joy 
Of   giving    thanks    to    God,  —  not 

thanks  of  form, 
A  w^ord  and  a  grimace,  but  reverently, 
With  covered  face  and  upward  ear- 
nest eye. 
Hail,  Sabbath !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor 

man's  day: 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to 

breathe 
The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's 

smoke ; 
While  wandering  slowly  up  the  river- 
side. 
He  meditates  on  Him  whose  power 

he  marks 
In    each    green    tree    that    proudly 

spreads  the  bough. 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that 

bloom 
Around  the  roots. 


240 


ORAV. 


Elinor  Gray. 


ISOLATION. 


We  walk  alone  through  all  life's  va- 
rious ways, 

Through  light  and  darkness,  sorrow, 
joy,  and  change ; 

And  greeting  each  to  each,  through 
passing  days. 

Still  we  are  strange. 

We  hold  our  dear  ones  with  a  firm, 

strong  grasp ; 
We  hear  their  voices,  look  into  their 

eyes; 
And  yet,  betwixt  us  in  that  clinging 

clasp 

A  distance  lies. 

We  cannot  know  their  hearts,  how- 

e'er  we  may 
Mingle  thought,  aspiration,  hope  and 

prayer; 


We  cannot  reach  them,  and  in  vain 
essay 

To  enter  there. 

Still,  in  each  heart  of  hearts  a  hid- 
den deep 

Lies,  never  fathomed  by  its  dearest, 
best, 

With  closest  care  our  purest  thoughts 
we  keep, 

And  tenderest. 


But,  blessed  thought!  we  shall  not 

always  so 
In  darkness  and    in    sadness  walk 

alone; 
There  comes  a  glorious  day  when  we 

shall  know 

As  we  arelmown. 


Thomas  Gray. 


ELEGY  IN  A    COUNTRY    CHURCH- 
YAIW. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting 

day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er 

the  lea. 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his 

weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness 

and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape 

on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness 

holds. 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels    his 

droning  flight. 
And  drowsv  tinklings  lull  the  distant 

folds"; 


Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled 

tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon 

complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret 

bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew- 
tree's  shade. 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a 
mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet 
sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing 

morn, 
The    swallow    twittering    from    the 

straw-built  shed, 


OB  AY. 


241 


The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echo- 
ing horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their 
lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth 
shall  burn,  [care: 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's 
return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to 
share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle 

yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe 

has  broke ; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team 

afield! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their 

sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful 
toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  ob- 
scure! [smile 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the 
poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of 

power. 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth 

e'er  gave. 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour, — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the 

grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these 

the  fault. 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies 

raise. 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle 

and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note 

of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust, 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting 

breath '? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent 

dust. 
Or  Flatte:  y  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of 

death  ? 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celes- 
tial fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might 
have  swayed. 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre: 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  am- 
ple page 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er 
unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble 
rage. 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the 
soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean 

bear: 
Full  many  a  flower  is  bom  to  blush 

unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert 

air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with 
dauntless  breast. 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  with- 
stood ; 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here 
may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  coun- 
try's blood. 

The  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to 
command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  de- 
spise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's 
eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circmnscribed 
alone 

Their  growing  .virtues,  but  their 
crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter 
to  a  throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  man- 
kind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of    conscious 

truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous 

shame, 


242 


OB  AY. 


Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and 

pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's 

flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  igno- 
ble strife 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to 
stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of 
life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their 
way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to 

protect 
Some    frail    memorial    still    erected 

nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless 

sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the 

unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she 

strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a 
prey, 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  re- 
signed, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheer- 
ful day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look 
behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul 
relies ; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  re- 
quires ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of 
Nature  cries, 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted 
fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  un- 

honored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale 

relate;  [led, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy 

fate, — 


Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  maj 

say, 
Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of 

dawn, 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews 

away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland 

lawn ; 

There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  noddinj 
beech 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots 
so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noon  tide  would 
he  stretch. 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  bab- 
bles by. 

Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as 

in  scorn. 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies   he 

would  rove; 
Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one 

forlorn. 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in 

hopeless  love. 

One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  'cus- 
tomed hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favor- 
ite tree; 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the 
rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood 
was  he; 

The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  through   the  church-way  path 

we  saw  him  borne, — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst 

read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath    yon 

asred  thorn. 


THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of 
earth 

A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  un- 
known ; 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  hum- 
ble birth. 

And  Melancholy  maiked  him  for  her 
own. 


OB  AY. 


243 


Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul 

sincere; 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely 

send : 
He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had,  a  tear. 
He  gained  from  Heaven,  't  was  all  he 

wished,  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or   draw    his    frailties    from    their 

dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope 

repose, ) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


ODE   OiV  THE  SPIifNG. 

Lo !  where  the  rosy-bosomed  hours 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear,  ' 

Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers 

And  wake  the  purple  year! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat 
Kesponsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note. 

The  untaught  harmony  of  spring: 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly. 
Cool  zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue 
sky 

Their  gathered  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches 
stretch 
A  broader,  browner  shade, 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown 
beech 
O'er  canopies  the  glade, 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall    sit,   and 
think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 
How  indigent  the  great; 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care ; 

The  panting  herds  repose: 
Yet  hark,  how  thro'  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  mummr  glows : 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing. 
Eager  to  taste  the  honeyed  spring 

And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon : 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gaily-gilded  trim 

Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 


To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  man : 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  thro'  life's  little  day. 

In  fortune's  varying  colors  drest: 
Brushed  by  the  hand  of  rough  mis- 
chance 
Or  chilled  by  age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply: 
Poor  moralist!  and  what  art  thou  ? 

A  solitary  fly! 
Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets. 

No  painted  plumage  to  display: 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown ; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone, — 

We  frolic  while  'tis  May. 


THE  PLEASURE  ARISING  FROM 
VICISSITUDE. 

Smiles  on  past  Misfortune's  brow 
Soft  Reflection's  hand  can  trace, 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  Sorrow  throw 

A  melancholy  grace ; 
While  hope    prolongs    our    happier 

hour. 
Or  deepest  shades,  that  dimly  lower 
And  blacken  round  oiu-  weary  way. 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day. 

Still,  where  rosy  Pleasure  leads. 

See  a  kindred  Grief  pursue ; 
Behind  the  steps  that  Misery  treads 

Approaching  Comfort  view: 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow 
Chastised  by  sabler  tints  of  woe, 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife, 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

See  the  wretch  that  long  has  tost 

On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain, 
At  length  repair  his  vigor  lost 

And  breathe  and  walk  again: 
The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  ga/e. 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening  Paradise- 


244 


GRAY. 


ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF 
ETON. 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  wat'ry  glade, 
Where  grateful  {Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade! 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights    the  expanse 
below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey. 
Whose    turf,    whose    shade,    whose 

flower*  among 
W^anders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver  winding  way. 

Ah,  happy  hills!  ah,  pleasing  shade! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  I 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood 
strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain ! 
I  feel  the  gales,  that  from  ye  blow, 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As   waving  fresh    their  gladsome 
wing. 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  sooth. 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames  (for  thou  hast 
seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race. 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace), 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  ? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthral  ? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While  some,  on  earnest  business  bent, 

Their  murm'ring  labors  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  con- 
straint 

To  sweeten  liberty : 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign. 

And    unknown    regions    dare   de- 
scry. 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind. 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 


Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  wneu  possest; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  iis  sued. 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 
Theirs  buxom  health,  of  rosy  hue. 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new. 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigor  born ; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  lighi 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas!  regardless  of  their  doom 

The  little  victims  play! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come. 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day: 
Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate 
And    black    misfortune's    baleful 
train ! 
Ah,   show   them  where  in  ambush 

stand, 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous 
band  1 
Ah,  tell  tiiem  they  are  men ! 

These  shall  *;he  fury  passions  tear. 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  a')ger,  pallid  fear. 

And  sham3  that  skulks  behind ; 
Or    pining    love    shall    waste    their 

youth. 
Or  jealousy  with  rankling  tooth 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart. 
And  envy  wan,  and  faded  care, 
Grim-visaged  comfortless  despair. 

And  sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise. 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high 
To  bitter  scorn  a  sacrifice 

And  grinning  infamy. 
The  stings  of  falsehood  those  shall 

try. 
And  hard  un kindness'  altered  eye. 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to 
flow; 
And  keen  remorse  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  madness  laughing  wild 

Amid  severest  woe. 

Lo,  in  the  Vale  of  Years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen. 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen: 


OUSTAFSON. 


24$ 


This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the 

veins, 
That  evei7  laboring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage : 
Lo,  poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 
That  numbs  the  soul  v/ith  icy  hand. 

And  slow-consuming  age. 

To  each  his  sufferings :  all  are  men, 
Condemned  alike  to  groan ; 


The  tender  for  another's  pain. 
The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 

Yet,  ah !  why  should  they  know  their 
fate. 

Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 
And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ? 

Thought  would  destroy  their  para< 
dise ! 

No  more, —  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 


Zadel  Barnes  Gustafson. 


LITTLE  MARTIN  CRAGHAN. 

One  reads  to  me  Macaulay's  "  Lays  " 
With  fervid  voice,  intoning  well 

The  poet's  fire,  the  vocal  grace; 
They  hold  me  like  a  spell. 

'Twere  marvel  if  in  human  veins 

Could  beat  a  pulse  so  cold 
It  would  not  quicken  to  the  strains, 
The  flying,  fiery  strains,  that  tell 
How  Romans  "kept  the  bridge  so 
well 
In  the  brave  days  of  old." 

The  while  I  listened,  till  my  blood, 
Plunged  in  the  poet's  martial  mood, 

Rushed  in  my  veins  like  wine, 
I  prayed, —  to  One  who  hears,  I  wis; 
*'  Give  me  one  breath  of  power  like 
this 

To  sing  of  Pittston  mine!" 

A  child  looks  up  the  ragged  shaft, 
A  boy  whose  meagre  frame 

Shrinks    as    he    hears    the    roaring 
draught 
That  feeds  the  eager  flame. 

He  has  a  single  chance ;  the  stakes 

Of  life  show  death  at  bay 
One  moment;  then  his  comrade  takes 

The  hope  he  casts  away. 

For  while  his  trembling  hand  is  raised. 
And  while  his  sweet  eyes  shine, 

There  swells  above  the  love  of  hfe 
The  rush  of  love  divine, — 


The  thought  of  those  unwarned,  to 
whom 
Death  steals  along  the  mine. 

0  little  Martin  Craghan! 
I  reck  not  if  you  swore. 

Like  Porsena  of  Clusium, 

By  gods  of  mythic  lore ; 
But  well  I  ween  as  great  a  heart 

Beat  your  small  bosom  sore. 

And  that  your  bare  brown  feet  scarce 
felt 
The  way  they  bounded  o'er. 

1  know  you  were  a  hero  then, 
Whate'er  you  were  before; 

And  in  God's  sight  your  flying  feet 
Made  white  the  cavern  floor. 

The  while  he  speeds  that  darksome 
way, 

Hope  paints  upon  his  fears 
Soft  visions  of  the  light  of  day; 

Faint  songs  of  birds  he  hears; 
In  summer  breeze  his  tangled  curls 

Are  blown  about  his  ears. 

He  sees  the  men ;  he  warns ;  and  now. 

His  duty  bravely  done. 
Sweet    hope  may  paint  the  fairest 
scene 

That  spreads  beneath  the  sun. 

Back  to  the  burning  shaft  he  flies ; 

There  bounding  pulses  fail ; 
The  light  forsakes  his  lifted  eyes; 

The  glowing  cheek  is  pale. 


246 


OUSTAFSON. 


With    wheeling,    whirling,     hungry 
flame, 

The  seething  shaft  is  rife : 
Where  solid  chains  drip  liquid  fire. 

What  chance  for  human  life  ? 

To  die  with  those  he  hoped  to  save, 
Back,    back,    through    heat    and 
gloom, 

To  find  a  wall, —  and  Death  and  he 
Shut  in  the  larger  tomb ! 

He  pleaded  to  be  taken  in 
As  closer  rolled  the  smoke; 

In  deathful  vapors  they  could  hear 
His  piteous  accents  choke. 

And  they,  with  shaking  voice,   re- 
fused ; 
And  then  the  young  heart  broke. 

Oh  love  of  life !    God  made  it  strong. 
And  knows  how  close  it  pressed ; 

And  death  to  those  who  love   life 
least 
Is  scarce  a  welcome  guest. 

One  thought  of  the  poor  wife,  whose 
head 

Last  night  lay  on  his  breast: 
A  quiver  runs  through  lips  that  morn 

By  children's  lips  caressed. 

These    things     the     sweet     strong 
thoughts  of  home, — 

Though  but  a  wretched  place, 
To  which  the  sad-eyed  miners  come 

With  Labor's  laggard  pace, — 
Remembered  in  the  cavern  gloom, 


Illumed    their    faces,    steeled     each 
heart. 

O  God !  what  mysteries 
Of  brave  and  base  make  sum  and  part 

Of  human  histories ! 
What  will  not  thy  poor  creatures  do 

To  buy  an  hour  of  breath ! 
Well  for  us  all  some  souls  are  true 

Above  the  fear  of  death ! 

He  wept  a  little, —  for  they  heard 
The  sound  of  sobs,  the  sighs 

That  breathed  of  martyrdom  complete 
Unseen  of  mortal  eyes, — 


And  then,  no  longer  swift,  his  feet 
Passed  down  the  galleries. 

He  crept  and  crouched   beside  his 
mule. 
Led  by  its  dying  moan; 
He  touched  it  feebly  with  a  hand 

That  shook  like  palsy's  own. 
God  grant  the  touch  had  power  to 
make 
The  child  feel  less  alone ! 

Who  knoweth  every  heart.  He  knows 
What  moved  the  boyish  mind; 

What  longings  grew  to  passion-throes 
For  dear  ones  left  behind ; 

How  hardly  youth  and  youth's  de- 
sires 
Their  hold  of  life  resigned. 

Perhaps  the  little  fellow  felt 
As  brave  Horatius  thought. 

When  for  those  dearer  Koman  lives 
He  held  his  own  as  nought. 

For  how  could  boy  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  fires 
To  save  poor  women's  husbands 

And  helpless  children's  sires  ? 

Death  leaned  upon  him  heavily ; 

But  Love,  more  mighty  still, — 
She  lent  him  slender  lease  of  life 

To  work  her  tender  will. 

He  felt  with  sightless,  sentient  hand 
Along  the  wall  and  ground. 

And  there  the  rude  and  simple  page 
For  his  sweet  purpose  found. 

O'erwritten  with  the  names  he  loved. 

Clasped  to  his  little  side. 
Dim  eyes  the  wooden  record  read 

Hours  after  he  had  died. 

Thus  from  all  knowledge  of  his  kind. 

In  darkness  lone  and  vast. 
From  life  to  death,  from  death  to  life, 

The  little  hero  passed. 

And,  while  they  listened  for  the  feet 
That  would  return  no  more, 

Far  oif  they  fell  in  music  sweet 
Upon  another  shore. 


HAG  E  MAN. 


247 


Samuel  Miller  Hageman. 


ONL  Y. 

Only  a  little  child, 
Crushed  to  death  to-day  in  the  mart ; 
But  the  whole  unhorizoned  kingdom 
of  heaven 

Was  in  that  little  heart 


Only  a  grain  of  sand, 
Swirled  up  where  the  sea  lies  spent ; 
But  it  holds  wherever  it  be  in  space 

The  poise  of  a  continent. 

Only  a  minute  gone, 
That  to  think  of  now  is  vain ; 
Ahl   that  was  the  minute  without 
whose  link 

Had  dropped  Eternity's  chain. 


THE   TWO  GREAT  CITIES. 

Side  by  side  rise  the  two  great  cities. 

Afar  on  the  traveller's  sight; 
One,  black  with  the  dust  of  labor. 

One,  solemnly  still  and  white. 
Apart,  and  yet  together, 

They  are  reached  in  a  dying  breath. 
But  a  river  flows  between  them, 

And  the  river's  name  is — Death 


Apart,  and  yet  together. 

Together,  and  yet  apart, 
As  the  child  may  die  at  midnight 

On  the  mother's  living  heart. 
So  close  come  the  two  great  cities. 

With  only  the  river  between ; 
And  the  grass  in  the  one  is  trampled. 

But  the  grass  in  the  other  is  green. 


The  hills  with  uncovered  foreheads, 

Like  the  disciples  meet. 
While  ever  the  flowing  water 

Is  washing  their  hallowed  feet. 
And  out  on  the  glassy  ocean. 

The  sails  in  the  golden  gloom 
Seem  to  me  but  moving  shadows 

Of  the  white  emmarbled  tomb„^ 

Anon,  from  the  hut  and  the  palace 

Anon,  from  early  till  late. 
They  come,  rich  and  poor  together. 

Asking  alms  at  thy  beautiful  gate. 
And  never  had  life  a  guerdon 

So  welcome  to  all  to  give. 
In  the  land  where  the  living  are  dy- 
ing, 

As  the  land  where  the  dead  may 
live. 

O  silent  city  of  refuge 

On  the  way  to  the  city  o'erhead! 
The  gleam  of  thy  marble  milestones 

Tells  the  distance  we  are  from  the 
dead. 
Full  of  feet,  but  a  city  untrodden, 

Full  of  hands,  but  a  city  unbuilt. 
Full  of  strangers  who  know  not  even 

That  their  life-cup  lies  there  spilt. 

They  know  not  the  tomb  from  the 
palace, 
They  dream  not  they  ever  have 
died: 
God  be  thanked  they  never  will  know 
it 
Till  they  live  on  the  other  side ! 
From  the  doors  that  death  shut  coidlj 
On  the  face  of  their  last  lone  woe: 
They  came  to  thy  glades  for  shelter 
Who  had  nowhere  else  to  go. 


248 


EALLECK. 


Fitz-Greene   Halleck. 


MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

AT-midniglit  in  his  guarded  tent, 
The    Turk  was  dreaming  of  the 
hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance 
bent, 
Should  tremble  at  his  power : 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court 

,   he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror; 
In    dreams    his  song  of  triumph 
heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring: 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne 

—  a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of 
wing. 
As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band. 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands 

stood. 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their 
blood 
On  old  Plataea's  day; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted 

air 
The    sons    of    sires  who  conquered 

there. 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare. 
As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An    hour    passed    on  —  the    Turk 
awoke ; 
That  bright  dream  was  his  last; 
He  woke  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"  To  arms !  thev  come !  the  Greek ! 
the  Greek  !^" 
He  woke  —  to  die  midst  flame  and 

smoke, 
And  shout,   and  groan,   and  sabre- 
stroke. 
And  death-shots  falling  thick  and 
fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain- 
cloud  ; 


And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet 
loud, 
Bozzaris  cheer  his  band. 

"  Strike  —  till  the  last  armed  foe  ex- 
pires ; 

Strike  —  for    your    altars  and    your 
fires; 

Strike  —  for  the  green  graves  of  your 
sires : 
God,  and  your  native  land! " 

They  fought, —  like  brave  men,  long 
and  well ; 
They  piled  that  ground  with  Mos- 
lem slain; 
They  conquered  —  but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hur- 
rah. 
And  the  red  field  was  won : 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 
Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death! 
Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she 

feels, 
For  the  first  time,   her  first-born's 

breath ; 
Come  wlien  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come     in     Consumption's     ghastly 

form, 
The  earthquake    shock,   the    ocean 

stonn ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and 

warm. 
With    banquet-song,    and    dance, 

and  wine ; 
And  thou  art  terrible  —  the  tear. 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  tha 

bier, 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 
Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 


EALLECK. 


249 


Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's 

word ; 
knd  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
'iiJome,   when  his    task    of   fame    is 

wrought  — 
"^ome  with   her   laurel-leaf,    blood- 
bought  — 
Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and 
then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men ; 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
"WTien  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of 

palm. 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 
Blew  o'er  the  Haytien  seas. 


Bozzaris !  with  the  storied  brave, 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time. 
Rest  thee  —  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee. 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its 
plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leaf- 
less tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry. 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb  : 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved  and  for  a  season  gone. 
For  thee  her  poets'  lyre  is  wreathed. 
Her    marble    wrought,    her    music 

breathed : 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells : 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  and  cottage  bed; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years. 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her 
tears. 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys. 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak. 

The  memory  of  her  bmied  joys, 


And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,   and 

Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 

That  were  not  bom  to  die. 


BURNS. 


Wild  rose  of  Alloway !  my  thanks ; 

Thou  mind' St  me  of  that  autumn 
noon 
When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 

And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 

Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's 
bough. 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief 
We've  crossed  the  winter  sea,  and 
thou 
Art  withered  —  flower  and  leaf. 

And    will  not    thy   death-doom    be 
mine  — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of 
clay? 
And  withered    my    life's    leaf    like 
thine. 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway  ? 

Not  so  his  memory  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long. 

His,   who  a    humbler    flower  could 
make 
Immortal  as  his  song. 

The  memory  of  Bums  —  a  name 
That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  fes- 
tal cup, 

A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory  —  be  the  rest 
Forgot  —  she's  canonized  his  mind; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  humankind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed 
Where  the  bard-peasant  first  drew 
breath  j 


250 


HALLECK. 


A    straw-thatched    roof    above    his 
head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 
His  monument — that  tells  to  heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  bard-peasant  given. 

Bid   thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that 
spot, 
Boy-minstrel,    in    thy    dreaming 
hour; 
And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  poet's  pride  and  power; 

The    pride  that   lifted  Bums  from 

earth, 
The    power  that  gave  a  child  of 

song 
Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth. 


And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 

Despair  —  thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than 
his. 

And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 
And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 

Purer  and  holier  fires ; 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not 
death ; 
Few  nobler  ones  than  Bums  are 
there ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 
Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart 
In  which  the  answering  heart  would 
speak, 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm 
tear  start. 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek ; 

And  his  that  music  to  whose  tone 
The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps 
time. 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 


knelt 

Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee. 
And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  poet's  mastery 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,   in  calm  and 
storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its 
showers. 
O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and 
warm. 
O'er  Keason's  dark,  cold  hours; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "die  or 
do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's 
mirth, 
Wliere  mourners  weep,  where  lovers 
woo. 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth  ? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed. 
What    will  vows    falter    on    the 
tongue. 
When  "Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace 
bled," 
Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  is  sung! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above. 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of 
praise, 
And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and 
love 
With  "Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alio  way's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and 
glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Bums,  though  brief  the  race  he 
ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path 
he  trod  — 
Lived,  died,  in  form  and  soul  a  man. 
The  imacre  of  his  God. 


EALLECK. 


251 


Through  car6,  and  pain,  and  want, 
and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could 
heal, 
Tortures  the  poor  alone  can  know. 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth. 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth. 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions 
strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave ; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high. 
That  could  not  fear  and  would  not 
bow. 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard!  his  words  are 
driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds 
sown. 
Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes. 

Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 
As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral-day. 
Men  stand    his    cold  earth-couch 
around. 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is,ifc. 

The   last,  the  hallowed  home  of 
one 
Who  lives  upon  all  memories. 

Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines. 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  con- 
fined— 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 


Sages,      with     Wisdom's      garland 
wTeathed, 
Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests 
of  power. 
And  warriors  with  theu*  bright  swords 
sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour. 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble 
home 
Is  lit  by  fortune's  dimmer  star. 
Are  there  —  o'er  wave  and  mountain 
come. 
From  countries  near  and  far; 

Pilgrims,  whose  wandering  feet  have 
pressed  [sand, 

The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's 
Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  west. 

My  own  green  forest  land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth. 
Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and 
sung. 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  field  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Doon's  low  trees. 
And    pastoral    Nith,  and  wooded 
Ayr, 
And    round    thy   sepulchres,    Dum- 
fries ! 
The  Poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art. 
His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and 
urns  ? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns '? 


ON  THE  DEA  TIJ  OF  JOSEPH  ROD 
MAN  DRAKE. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee. 
Friend  of  my  better  days ! 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee. 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying. 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long  where  thou  art  lying. 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 


if52 


HAUTE, 


When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  prov- 
en, 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine. 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  wo  were  thine; 


It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 
Around  thy  faded  brow, 

But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 
And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee. 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


Francis  Bret  Harte. 


TO  A  SEA-BIRD. 

Sauntfring  hither  on  listless  wings, 

Careless  vagabond  of  the  sea, 
Little  thou  heedest  the  surf  that  sings. 
The   bar  that   thunders,  the  shale 
that  rings, — 
Give  me  to  keep  thy  company. 

Little  thou  hast,  old  friend,  that's 
new; 
Storms  and  wrecks  are  old  things 
to  thee ; 
Sick  am  1  of  these  changes  too ; 
Little  to  care  for,  little  to  rue, — 
I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

All  of  thy  wanderings,  far  and  near. 

Bring  thee  at  last  to  shore  and  me ; 

All  of  my  joumeyings  end  them  here. 

This  our  tether  must  be  our  cheer, — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

Lazily  rocking  on  ocean's  breast. 
Something  in  common,  old  frend, 
have  we; 
Thou  on  the  shingle  seekest  thy  nest, 
I  to  the  waters  look  for  rest, — 
I  .on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 


LONE  MOUNTAIN  CEMETERY, 

This  is  that  hill  of  awe 
That  Persian  Sindbad  saw, — 

The  mount  magnetic ; 
And  on  its  seaward  face. 
Scattered  along  its  base. 

The  wrecks  prophetic. 

Here  come  the  argosies 
Blown  by  each  idle  breeze, 

To  and  fro  shifting; 
Yet  to  the  hill  of  Fate 
All  drawing,  soon  or  late, — 

Day  by  day  drifting,  — 

Drifting  forever  here 
Barks  that  for  many  a  year 

Braved  wind  and  weather; 
Shallops  but  yesterday 
Launched  on  yon  shining  bay,-« 

Drawn  all  together. 

This  is  the  end  of  all : 
Sun^hyself  by  the  wall, 

O  poorer  Hindbad ! 
Envy  not  Sindbad' s  fame: 
Here  come  alike  the  same, 

Hindbad  and  Sindbad. 


HAY. 


253 


John   Hay. 


THE  PRAIRIE. 

The  skies  are  blue  above  my  head, 

The  prairie  green  below, 
>nd  flickering  o'er  the  tufted  grass 

The  shifting  shadows  go, 
Vague-sailing,  where    the    feathery 
clouds 

Fleck  white  the  tranquil  skies, 
iBlack  javelins  darting  where  aloft 

The  whirling  pheasant  flies. 

A  glimmering  plain  in  drowsy  trance 

The  dim  horizon  bounds, 
Where  all  the  air  is  resonant 

With  sleepy  summer  sounds. 
The  life  that  sings  among  the  flowers, 

The  lisping  of  the  breeze. 
The  hot  cicala's  sultry  crjr. 

The  murmurous  dreamy  bees. 

The  butterfly,  —  a  flying  flower — 

Wheels  swift  in  flashing  rings. 
And  flutters  round  his  quiet  kin. 

With  brave  flame-mottled  wings. 
The  wild  pinks  burst  in  crimson  fire. 

The  phlox'  bright  clusters  shine. 
And  prairie-cups  are  swinging  free 

To  spill  their  airy  wine. 

And  lavishly  beneath  the  sun. 

In  liberal  splendor  rolled. 
The  fennel  fills  the  dipping  plain 

With  floods  of  flowery  gold : 
And  widely  weaves  the  iron-weed 

A  woof  of  purple  dyes 
Where  Autumn's  royal  feet  may  tread 

When  bankrupt  Summer  flies. 

In  verdurous  tumult  far  away 

The  prairie-billows  gleam. 
Upon  their  crests  in  blessing  rests 

The  noontide's  gracious  beam. 
Low  quivering  vapors  steaming  dim. 

The  level  splendors  break 
Where  languid  lilies  deck  the  rim 

Of  some  land-circled  lake. 

Far  in  the  East  like  low-hung  clouds 
The  waving  woodlands  lie ; 


Far  in  the  West  the  glowing  plain 
Melts  warmly  in  the  sky. 

No  accent  woimds  the  reverent  air. 
No  footprint  dints  the  sod,  — 

Low  in  the  light  the  prairie  lies 
Rapt  in  a  dream  of  God. 


IN  A   GRAVEYARD. 

In  the  dewy  depths  of  the  graveyard 

I  lie  in  the  tangled  grass. 
And  watch  in  the  sea  of  azure, 

The  white  cloud-islands  pass. 

The  birds  in  the  rustling  branches 

Sing  gaily  overhead ; 
Gray  stones  like  sentinel  spectres 

Are  guarding  the  silent  dead. 

The  early  flowers  sleep  shaded 
In  the  cool  green  noonday  glooms ; 

The  broken  light  falls  shuddering 
On  the  cold  white  face  of  the  tombs. 

Without,  the  world  is  smiling 
In  the  infinite  love  of  God, 

But  the  sunlight  fails  and  falters 
When  it  falls  on  the  churchyard 
sod. 

On  me  the  joyous  rapture 
Of  a  heart's  first  love  is  shed, 

But  it  falls  on  my  heart  as  coldly 
As  sunlight  on  the  dead. 


REMORSE. 

Sad  is  the  thought  of  sunniest  days 

Of  love  and  rapture  perislied, 
And  shine  through  memory's  tearful 
haze 

The  eyes  once  fondliest  cherished. 
Reproachful  is  the  ghost  of  toys 

That     charmed    while    life     was 
wasted. 
But  saddest  is  the  thought  of  joys 

That  never  yet  were  tasted. 


254 


EAT, 


Sad  is  the  vague  and  tender  dream 

Of  dead  love's  lingering  kisses, 
To    crushed    hearts    haloed    by  the 
gleam 
Of  unreturning  blisses ; 
Deep  mourns  the  soul  in  anguished 
pride 
For   the  pitiless  death    that  won 
them,  — 
But  the  saddest  wail  is  for  lips  that 
died 
With  the  virgin  dew  upon  them. 


ON  THE  BLUFF. 

O  GRANDLY  flowing  River! 

O  silver-gliding  River! 

Thy  springing  willows  shiver 

In  the  sunset  as  of  old ; 
They  shiver  in  the  silence 
Of  the  willow-whitened  islands, 
While  the  sun-bars  and  the  sand-bars 

Fill  air  and  wave  with  gold. 

O  gay,  oblivious  River! 
O  sunset-kindled  River! 
Do  you  remember  ever 

The  eyes  and  skies  so  blue 
On  a  summer  day  that  shone  here, 
When  we  were  all  alone  here, 
And  the  blue  eyes  were  too  wise 

To  speak  the  love  they  knew  ? 

O  stern  impassive  River ! 
O  still  unanswering  River! 
The  shivering  willows  quiver 

As  the  night-winds  moan  and  rave. 
From  the  past  a  voice  is  calling, 
From  heaven  a  star  is  falling, 
And  dew  swells  in  the  bluebells 

Above  her  hillside  grave. 


A    WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

A  SENTINEL  angel  sitting  high  in 

gloiy 
Heard  this  shrill  wail  ring  out  from 

Purgatory : 
*'  Have  mercy,  mighty  angel,  hear  my 

story ! 


"  I  loved,  — and,  blind  with  passion- 
ate love,  I  fell. 

Love  brought  me  down  to  death,  and 
death  to  Hell. 

For  God  is  just,  and  death  for  sin  is 
well. 

"I  do  not  rage  against  his  high  de- 
cree. 

Nor  for  myself  do  ask  that  grace  shall 
be: 

But  for  my  love  on  earth  who  mourns 
for  me. 

"Great  Spirit!  Let  me  see  my  love 

again 
And  comfort  him  one  hour,  and  I 

were  fain 
To  pay  a  thousand  years  of  fire  and 

pain." 

Then  said  the  pitying  angel,  ''Nay, 
repent 

That  wild  vow!  Look,  the  dial,  fin- 
ger's bent 

Down  to  the  last  hour  of  thy  punish- 
ment!" 

But  still  she  wailed,  "  I  pray  thee,  let 


me  go 


I  cannot  rise  to  peace  and  leave  him 

so. 
O,  let  me  soothe  him  in  his  bitter 

woe!" 

The  brazen  gates  ground  sullenly  ajar, 
And  upward,  joyous,   like  a  rising 

star. 
She  rose  and  vanished  in  the  ether 

far. 

But  soon  adown  the  dying  sunset 
sailing. 

And  like  a  wounded  bird  hei  pinions 
trailing, 

She  fluttered  back,  with  broken- 
hearted wailing. 

She  sobbed,  "  I  found  him  by  the 

summer  sea 
Reclined,  his  head  upon  a  maiden's 

knee,  — 
She  curled  his  hair  and  kissed  him. 

Woe  is  me!" 


EAYNE. 


255 


She  wept.     "  Now  let  my   punish- 

In life's  high  noon 

ment  begin ! 

Aimless  I  stand,  my  promised  task 

I  have  been  fond  and  foolish.     Let 

imdone. 

me  in 

And  raise  my  hot  eyes  to  the  angry 

To  expiate  my  sorrow  and  my  sin." 

sun 

That  will  go  down  too  soon. 

The  angel  answered,  "  Nay,  sad  soul, 

go  higher! 

Turned  into  gall 

To  be  deceived  in  your  true  heart's 

Are    the  sweet  joys  of  childhood's 

desire 

sunny  reign ; 

Was  bitterer  than  a  thousand  years  of 

And  memory  is  a   torture,    love    a 

Ike!" 

chain 

That  binds  my  life  in  thrall. 

LAG  RIM  AS. 

And  childhood's  pain 

God  send  me  tears ! 

Could  to  me  now  the  purest  rapture 

Loose  the  fierce  band  that  binds  my 

yield ; 

tired  brain, 

I  pray  for  tears  as  in  his  parching 

Give  me  the  melting  heart  of  other 

field 

years. 

The  husbandman  for  rain. 

And  let  me  weep  again ! 

We  pray  in  vain ! 

Before  me  pass 

The  sullen  sky  flings  down  its  blaze 

The  shapes  of  things  inexorably  true. 

of  brass ; 

Gone  is  the  sparkle  of  transforming 

The    joys  of    life  all  scorched  and 

dew 

withering  pass ; 

From  every  blade  of  grass. 

I  shall  not  weep  again. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 

A   SUMMER  MOOD. 


Ah  me !  for  evermore,  for  evermore 
These  human  hearts  of  ours  must 
yearn  and  sigh. 
While  down  the  dells    and  up  the 
murmurous  shore 
Nature  renews  her  immortality. 

The  heavens  of  June  stretch  calm  and 
bland  above, 
June  roses  blush  with  tints  of  ori- 
ent skies. 
But  we,  by  graves  of  joy,  desire,  and 
love. 
Mourn  in  a  world  which  breathes 
of  Paradise ! 

The  sunshine  mocks  the  tears  it  may 

not  dry. 
The  breezes  —  tricksy  couriers  of  the 

air, — 


Child-roisterers  winged,  and    lightly 
fluttering  by  — 
Blow  their  gay  trumpets  in  the  face 
of  care ; 

And    bolder  winds,   the  deep  sky's 
passionate  speech, 
Woven  into  rhythmic  raptures  of 
desire. 
Or  fugues  of   mystic  victory,  sadly 
reach 
Our  humbled  souls,  to   rack,  not 
raise  them  higher! 

The  field-birds  seem  to  twit  us  as  they 
pass 
With  their  small  blisses,  piped  so 
clear  and  loud ; 
The  cricket  triumphs  o'er  us  in  the 
grass, 
And  the  lark,  glancing  beamlike  up 
the  cloud. 


256 


EAYNE. 


Sings  us  to  scorn  with  his  keen  rhap- 
sodies : 
Small  things  and  great  unconscious 
tauntings  bring 
To    edge   our   cares,   while  we,  the 
proud  and  wise, 
Envy  the  insect's  joy,  the  birdling's 


wmg 


And  thus  for  evermore,  till  time  shall 
cease, 
Man's  soul  and  Nature's  —  each  a 
separate  sphere  — 
Kevolves,  the  one  in  discord,  one  in 
peace, 
And  who  shall  make  the   solemn 
mystery  clear  ? 


BY  THE  AUTUMN  SEA. 

Fair  as  the  dawn  of  the  fairest  day, 
Sad  as  the  evening's  tender  gray, 
By  the  latest  lustre  of  sunset  kissed, 
That  wavers  and  wanes  through  an 

amber  mist, — 
There  cometh  a  dream  of  the  past  to 

me. 
On  the  desert   sands,  by  the  autumn 

sea. 

All  heaven  is  wrapped  in  a  mystic 

veil. 
And  the  face  of  the  ocean  is  dim  and 

pale. 
And  there  rises  a  wind  from  the  chill 

northwest, 
That  seemeth  the  wail  of  a  soul's 

unrest. 
As  the  twilight  falls,  and  the  vapors 

flee 
Par  over  the  wastes  of  the  autumn 


A  single  ship  through  the  gloaming 

glides 
Upborne  on  the  swell  of  the  seaward 

tides ; 
And  above  the  gleam  of  her  topmost 

spar 
Are  the  virgin  eyes  of  the  vesper  star 
That  shine  with  an  angel's  ruth  on 

me,  — 
A  hopeless  waif,  by  the  autumn  sea. 


The  wings  of  the  ghostly  beach-birds 
gleam 

Through  the  shimmering  surf,  and 
the  curlew's  scream 

Falls  faintly  shrill  from  the  darkening 
height ; 

The  first  weird  sigh  on  the  lips  of 
Night 

Breathes  low  through  the  sedge  and 
the  blasted  tree, 

With  a  murmur  of  doom,  by  the  au- 
tumn sea. 

Oh,  sky-enshadowed  and  yearning 
main, 

Your  gloom  but  deepens  this  human 
pain; 

Those  waves  seem  big  with  a  name- 
less care, 

That  sky  is  a  type  of  the  heart's 
despair. 

As  I  linger  and  muse  by  the  sombre 
lea, 

And  the  night-shades  close  on  the 
autumn  sea. 


THE    WOODLAND. 

Yon  woodland,  like  a  human  mind 
Has  many  a    phase  of  dark   and 
light; 
Now  dim  with    shadows  wandering 
blind. 
Now  radiant  with  fair  shapes   of 


They  softly  come,  they  softly  go. 
Capricious  as  the  vagrant  wind,  — 

Nature's  vague  thoughts  in  gloom  or 
glow, 
That  leave  no  airiest  trace  behind. 

No  trace,   no    trace;   yet  wherefore 
thus 
Do  shade  and    beam    our   spirits 
stir? 
Ah !  Nature  may  be  cold  to  us. 

But  we  are  strangely  moved  by  her  I 

The   wild  bird's  strain,   the  breezy 
spray. 
Each  hour  with  sure  earth-changes 
rife, 


IIAYNE. 


257 


Hint  more  than  all  the  sages  say, 
Or  poets  sing,  of  death  or  life ! 

For,  truth  half  drawn  from  Nature's 
breast, 
Through  subtlest  types  of  form  and 
tone, 
Outweigh  what  man  at  most  hath 
guessed, 
While  heeding  his  own  heart  alone. 

And  midway  betwixt  heaven  and  us 
Stands  Nature,  in  her  fadeless  grace, 

Still  pointing  to  our  Father's  house. 
His  glory  on  her  mystic  face ! 


WINDLESS   RAIN. 

The  rain,  the  desolate  rain! 

Ceaseless,  and  solemn,  and  chill! 
How  it  drips  on  the  misty  pane. 

How  it  drenches  the  darkened  sill! 
O  scene  of  sorrow  and  dearth ! 

I  would  that  the  wind  awaking 
To  a  fierce  and  gusty  birth 

Might  vary  this  duil  refrain 
Of  the  rain,  the  desolate  rain: 

For   the  heart  of   heaven   seems 
breaking 
In  tears  o'er  the  fallen  earth, 

And  again,  again,  again. 

We  list  to  the  sombre  strain, 
The  faint,  cold,  monotone  — 
Whose  soul  is  a  mystic  moan  — 
Of  the  rain,  the  mournful  rain, 
The  soft,  despairing  rain ! 

The  rain,  the  murmurous  rain ! 

Weary,  passionless,  slow, 
'T  is  the  rhythm  of  settled  sorrow, 

'T  is  the  sobbing  of  cureless  woe! 
And  all  the  tragic  life. 

The  pathos  of  Long- Ago, 
Comes  back  on  the  sad  refrain 
Of  the  rain,  the  dreary  rain. 
Till  the  graves  in  my  heart  unclose 

And  the  dead  who  are  buried  there 
From  a  solemn  and  weird  repose 

Awake,  —  but  with  eyeballs  drear. 
And  voices  that  melt  in  pain 
On  the  tide  of  the  plaintive  rain, 
The  yearning,  hopeless  rain. 
The  long,  low,  whispering  rain  ? 


THE  STING   OF  DEATH. 

I  FEAR  thee  not,  O  Death!  nay,  oft 

I  pine 
To  clasp  thy  passionless  bosom  to 

mine  own,  — 
And  on  thy  heart  sob  out  my  latest 

moan. 
Ere  lapped  and  lost  in  thy  strange 

sleep  divine; 
But  much  I  fear  lest  that  chill  breath 

of  thine 
Should  freeze    all  tender  memories 

into  stone,  — 
Lest  ruthless  and  malign  Oblivion 
Quench  the  last  spark  that  lingers  on 

love's  shrine:  — 
O  God!   to   moulder  through  dark, 

dateless  years,  — 
The  while  all  loving  ministries  shall 

cease. 
And  Time  assuage  the  fondest  mourn- 
er's tears!  — 
Here  lies  the  sting !  —  this,  th  is  it  is 

to  die!  — 
And  yet  great  Nature  rounds  all  strife 

with  peace, 
And  life  or  death,  —  each    rests   in 

mystery ! 


JASMINE. 

Of  all  the  woodland  flowers  of  earlier 
spring, 

These  golden  jasmines,  each  an  air- 
hung  bower. 

Meet  for  the  Queen  of  Fairies'  tiring 
hoiu". 

Seem  loveliest  and  most  fair  in  blos- 
soming; — 

How  yonder  mock-bird  thrills  his 
fervid  wing 

And  long,  lithe  throat,  where  twink- 
ling flower  on  flower 

Rains  the  globed  dewdrops  down,  a 
diamond  shower. 

O'er  his  brown  head,  poised  as  in  act 
to  sing:  — 

Lo!  the  swift  sunshine  floods  the 
flowery  urns. 

Girding    their    delicate    gold    with 


Ii58 


HEBER  —  REDDER  WICK. 


Till  the  blent  life  of    bough,   leaf, 

blossom,  burns; 
Then,  then  outbursts  the  mock-bird 

clear  and  loud, 


Half-drunk  with  perfume,  veiled  by 

radiance  bright,  — 
A     star     of     music     in     a     fiery 

cloud ! 


Reginald   Heber. 


IF  THOU   WERT  BY  MY  SIDE. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love. 
How  fast  would  evening  fail 

In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove. 
Listening  the  nightingale ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee. 
How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  Grunga's  mimic  sea! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 
When  on  our  deck  reclined. 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay, 
And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 
My  twilight  steps  I  guide. 

But  most   beneath  the  lamp's  pale 
beam 
I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try. 
The  lingering  noon  to  cheer. 


But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eye. 
Thy  meek  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  or  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on !  then  on !  where  duty  leads, 
My  course  be  onward  still ; 

O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads, 
O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course,  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates. 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain ; 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright, 
they  say, 

Across  the  dark-blue  sea ; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee ! 


James  Hedderwick. 


MIDDLE  LIFE. 

Fair  time  of  calm  resolve  —  of  sober 
thought ! 

Quiet  half-way  hostelry  on  life's  long 
road. 

In  which  to  rest  and  readjust  our 
load! 

High  table-land,  to  which  we  have 
been  brought 

By  stumbling  steps  of  ill-directed  toil ! 

Season  when  not  to  achieve  is  to  de- 
spair ! 


Last  field  for  us  of  a  full  fruitful  soil .' 
Only  spring-tide  our  freighted  aims 

to  bear 
Onward  to  all  our  yearning  dreams 

have  sought ! 

How  art  thou  changed !    Once  to  our 

youthful  eyes 
Thin   silvering  locks  and  thought's 

imprinted  lines 
Of    sloping    age    gave     weird    and 

wintry  signs : 


HEDGE. 


259 


But  now  these  trophies  ours,  we  re- 
cognize 

Only  a  voice  faint-rippling  to  its 
shore, 

And  a  weak  tottering  step  as  marks 
of  old. 

None  are  so  far  but  some  are  on  be- 
fore; 

Thus  still  at  distance  is  the  goal  be- 
held. 

And  to  Improve  the  way  is  truly  wise. 

Farewell,  ye  blossomed  hedges!  and 
the  deep 


Thick  green  of  summer  on  the  mat- 
ted bough ! 

The  languid  autumn  mellows  round 
us  now : 

Yet  fancy  may  its  vernal  beauties 
keep, 

Like  holly  leaves  for  a  December 
wreath. 

To  take  this  gift  of  life  with  trusting 
hands. 

And  star  with  heavenly  hopes  the 
night  of  death, 

Is  all  that  poor  humanity  demands 

To  lull  its  meaner  fears  to  easy  sleep. 


Frederic  Henry  Hedge. 


QUESTIONINGS. 

Hath  this  world  without  me  wrought 
Other  substance  than  my  thought  ? 
Lives  it  by  my  sense  alone. 
Or  by  essence  of  its  own  ? 
Will  its  life,  with  mine  begun. 
Cease  to  be  when  that  is  done  ? 
Or  another  consciousness 
With  the  self-same  forms  impress  ? 

Doth  yon  fire-ball,  poised  in  air. 
Hang  by  my  permission  there  ? 
Are  the  clouds  that  wander  by 
But  the  offspring  of  mine  eye, 
Bom  with  eveiy  glance  I  cast. 
Perishing  when  that  is  past  ? 
And  those  thousand,  thousand  eyes, 
Scattered  through  the  twinkling  skies, 
Do  they  draw  their  life  from  mine, 
Or  of  their  own  beauty  shine  ? 

Now  I  close  my  eyes,  my  ears, 

And  creation  disappears ; 

Yet  if  I  but  speak  the  word. 

All  creation  is  restored. 

Or  —  more  wonderful  —  within, 

Kew  creations  do  begin ; 

Hues  more  bright  and  forms  more 

rare 
Than  reaUty  doth  wear, 


Flash  across  my  inward  sense 
Born  of  the  mind's  omnipotence. 

Soul !  that  all  inf ormest,  say ! 
Shall  these  glories  pass  away  ? 
Will  those  planets  cease  to  blaze 
When  these  eyes  no  longer  gaze  ? 
And  the  life  of  things  be  o'er 
When  these  pulses  beat  no  moie  ? 

Thought !    that   in   me   works    and 

lives,  — 
Life  to  all  things  living  gives,  — 
Art  thou  not  thyself,  perchance, 
But  the  universe  in  trance  ? 
A  reflection  inly  flung 
By  that  world  thou  fanc'edst  sprur'g 
From  thyself, — thyself  a  dream, — 
Of  the  world's  thinking,   thou  i,-rie 

theme  ? 

Be  it  thus,  or  be  thy  birth 

From  a  source  above  the  earth,  — 

Be  thou  matter,  be  thou  mind, 

In  thee  alone  myself  I  find. 

And  through  thee,  alone,  for  me. 

Hath  this  world  reality. 

Therefore,  in  thee  will  I  live. 

To  thee  all  myself  will  give. 

Losing  still  that  1  may  find 

This  bounded  self  in  boundless  mind. 


260 


EEMANS. 


Felicia   Dorothea  Hemans. 


BREATHINGS   OF  SPRING. 

What  wak'st  thou,  Spring?    Sweet 
voices  in  the  woods, 
And   reed-like  echoes,   that   have 
long  been  mute ; 
Thou  bringest  back,  to  fill  the  soli- 
tudes. 
The  lark's  clear  pipe,  the  cuckoo's 
viewless  flute. 
Whose  tone  seems  breathing  moum- 
fulness  or  glee, 
Even  as  our  hearts  may  be. 

And  the  leaves  greet  thee.  Spring!  — 
the  joyous  leaves. 
Whose  tremblings  gladden  many  a 
copse  and  glade. 
Where  each  young  spray  a  rosy  flush 
receives. 
When  thy  south  wind  hath  pierced 
the  whispery  shade. 
And      happy     murmurs,      running 
through  the  grass. 
Tell  that  thy  footsteps  pass. 

And  the  bright  waters, —  they,  too, 
hear  thy  call, 
Spring,   the  awakener!  thou  hast 
burst  their  sleep! 
Amidst  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  their 
fall 
Makes  melody,  and  in  the  forests 
deep. 
Where    sudden    sparkles    and    blue 
gleams  betray 
Their  windings  to  the  day. 

And      flowers,  —  the     fairy-peopled 
world  of  flowers! 
Thou  from  the  dust  hast  set  that 
glory  free. 
Coloring  the  cowslip  with  the  sunny 
hours. 
And  pencilling  the  wood-anemone : 
Silent  they  seem ;  yet  each  to  thouglit- 
f ul  eye 
Glows  with  mute  poesy. 


But  what  a  wak'st  thou  in  the  heart, 
O  Spring!  — 
The    human    lieart,    w^ith    all    its 
dreams  and  sighs  ? 
Thou  that  givest  back  so  many  a 
buried  thing. 
Restorer  of  forgotten  harmonies ! 
Fresh  songs  and  scents  break  forth 
where'er  thou  art: 
What  wak'st  thou  in  the  heart  ? 

Too  much,  oh,  there,  too  much!  — 
we  know  not  well 
Wherefore  it  should  be  thus;  yet, 
roused  by  thee. 
What  fond,  strange  yearnings,  from 
the  soul's  deep  cell. 
Gush  for  the  faces  we  no  more  may 
see! 
How  are  we  haunted,  in  thy  wind's 
low  tone. 
By  voices  that  are  gone! 

Looks  of  familiar  love,  that  never 
more, 
Never  on  earth,  our  aching  eyes 
shall  meet, 
Past  words  of  welcome  to  our  house- 
hold door, 
And  vanished  smiles,  and  sounds 
of  parted  feet, — 
Spring,  midst  the  murmurs  of  thy 
flowering  trees. 
Why,  why  revivest  tliou  these  ? 

Vain  longings  for  the  dead!  —  why 
come  they  back 
With  thy  young  birds,  and  leaves, 
and  living  blooms  ? 
Oh,  is  it  not  that  from  thine  earthly 
track 
Hope  to  thy  world  may  look  be- 
yond the  tombs  ? 
Yes,  gentle  Spring;  no  sorrow  dims 
thine  air. 
Breathed    by    our    loved    ones 
there. 


HEMANS, 


261 


THE  INVOCATION. 

Answer  me,  burning  stars  of  night! 

Where  is  the  spirit  gone, 
That  past  the  reach  of  human  sight, 

Even  as  a  breeze,  hath  flown  ? 
And  the  stare  answered   me, —"We 
roll 

In  light  and  power  on  high, 
But,  of  the  never-dying  soul. 

Ask  things  that  cannot  die!" 

Oh !  many-toned  and  chainless  wind ! 

Thou  art  a  wanderer  free ; 
Tell  me  if  thou  its  place  canst  find. 

Far  over  mount  and  sea  ? 
And  the  wind  murmured  in  reply, 

"The  blue  deep  1  have  crossed. 
And  met  its  barks  and  billows  high. 

But  not  what  thou  hast  lost! " 

Ye  clouds  that  gorgeously  repose 

Around  the  setting  sun. 
Answer !  have  ye  a  home  for  those 

Whose  earthly  race  is  run  ? 
The  bright  clouds  answered, —  "We 
depart. 

We  vanish  from  the  sky ; 
Ask  what  is  deathless  in  thy  heart 

For  that  which  cannot  die! " 

Speak,    then,    thou   voice    of    God 
within ! 
Thou  of  the  deep  low  tone ! 
Answer  me  through  life's  restless  din, 

Where  is  the  spirit  flown  ? 
And  the  voice  answered,  "Be  thou 
still! 
Enough  to  know  is  given ; 
Clouds,  winds,  and  stars  their  task 
fulfil; 
Thine  is  to  trust  in  Heaven  I " 


THE  HOUR  OF  DiATH. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- 
wind's  breath, 
And  stars  to  set, —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own, 
oh!  Death. 


Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joy- 
ous hearth. 
Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the 
voice  of  pi-ayer, — 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of 
the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour. 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song, 
and  wine ; 
There  comes  a  day  for  grief's  o*er- 
whelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears, —  but  all  are 
thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for 
decay. 
And  smile  at  thee, — but  thou  art 
not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize 
their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- 
wind's  breath. 
And  stars  to  set, —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own, 
oh!  Death. 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall 
cross  the  sea. 
When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the 
golden  grain, — 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look 
for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the 
violets  lie  ? 
Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow 
pale  ? 
They  have  one  season, —  all  are  ours 
to  die! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam. 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the 
air; 
Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful 
home. 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth, —  and 
thou  art  there. 


262 


HEMANS. 


Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  ehn  to 
rest, — 
Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and 
trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the 
princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- 
wind's  breath, 
And  stars  to  set, —  but  all. 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own, 
oh!  Death. 


EVENING  PRAYER  AT  A  GIRLS' 
SCHOOL. 

Hush!  'tis  a  holy  hour, —  the  quiet 
room 
Seems  like  a  temple,   while   yon 
soft  lamp  sheds 

A  faint  and  starry  radiance,  through 
the  gloom 
And  the  sweet  stillness,  down  on 
bright  young  heads. 

With  all  their  clustering  locks,  un- 
touched by  care, 

And  bowed,   as  flowers  are    bowed 
with  night, —  in  prayer. 

Gaze  on, —  'tis  lovely!  —  childhood's 
lip  and  cheek, 
Mantling  beneath  its  earnest  brow 
of  thought. 

Gaze, —  yet  what  seest  thou  in  those 
fair,  and  meek, 
And  fragile  things,  as  but  for  sun- 
shine wrought  ? 

Thou  seest  what  grief  must  nurture 
for  the  sky. 

What  death  must  fashion  for  eternity ! 

Oh!  joyous  creatures,  that  will  sink 
to  rest, 
Lightly,  when  those  pure  orisons 
are  done. 
As  birds  with  slumber's  honey-dew 
oppressed, 
'Midst  the  dim  folded  leaves,  at  set 
of  sun, — 


Lift  up  your  hearts !  —  though  yet  no 

sorrow  lies 
Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those 

clear  eyes ; 

Though  fresh  within  your  breasts  the 
untroubled  springs 
Of  hope  make  melody  where'er  ye 
tread ; 

And  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows, 
from  the  wings 
Of  spirits  visiting  but  youth,  be 
spread ; 

Yet  in  those  flate-like  voices,  ming- 
ling low, 

Is  woman's  tenderness, —  how  soon 
her  woe. 

Her  lot  is  on  you, —  silent  tears  to 
weep. 
And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through 
suffering's  hour. 

And  sumless  riches,  from  affection's 
deep. 
To  pour  on  broken  reeds, — a  wasted 
sho^ver !  [clay. 

And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them 

And  to  bewail  that  worship, —  there- 
fore pray! 

Her  lot  is  on  you, —  to  be  found  un- 

tired. 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed 

of  pain. 
With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow 

inspired, 
And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though 

hope  be  vain.  [decay, 

Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer 
And  oh !  to  love  through  all  things, — 

therefore  pray ! 

And  take  the  thought  of  this  calm 

vesper  time, 
With  its  low  murmuring  sounds 

and  silvery  light, 
On  througlitlie  dark  days  fading  from 

their  prime. 
As  a  sweet  dew  to  keep  your  souls 

from  blight. 
Earth  will  forsake, —  oh!  happy   to 

have  given 
The  unbroken  heart's  first  fragrance 

unto  Heaven! 


HERBERT. 


263 


LANDING   OF    THE  PILGRIMS. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high, 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  liills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their 
bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted  came ; 
Not   with   the    roll  of  the  stirring 
drums, 
And    the   trumpet    that  sings  of 
fame ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert 
gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 
And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim 
woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free! 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 
From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's 
foam ; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest 
roared  — 
This  was  their  welcome  home ! 


There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  band: 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there. 
Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 
Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 

There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely 
high, 
And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth    of  seas,   the  spoils  of 
war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground. 
The  soil  where  first  they  trod. 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there 
they  found  — 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 


CALM  ON   THE   BOSOM   OF  OUR 
GOD. 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  our  God, 
Fair  spirit!  rest  thee  now! 

E'en  while  with  us  thy  footsteps  trod, 
His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust  to  its  narrow  house  beneath ! 

Soul  to  its  place  on  high! 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 


George  Herbert. 


THE  PULLEY. 


When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessing  standing 

by: 
Let  us  (said  he)  pour  on  him  all  we 

can: 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed 

lie. 
Contract  into  a  span. 


So  strength  first  made  a  way; 
Then  beauty  flow'd,  then  wisdom, 

honor,  pleasure: 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made 

a  stay. 
Perceiving   that   alone,    of   all    his 
treasure. 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 


264 


HERBERT, 


For  if  I  should  (said  he) 

They  may  weep  out  the  stains  by 

Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  crea- 

them did  rise: 

ture, 

Those  doors  being  shut,  all  by  the 

He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of 

ear  comes  in. 

me, 

Who  marks  in  church-time  other 

And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of 

symmetry. 

Nature : 

Makes    all    their    beauty   his    de- 

So both  should  losers  be. 

formity. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 

Let  vain  or  busy  thoughts  have  there 

But  keep  them  with  repining  restless- 

no part : 

ness: 

Bring  not  thy  plough,  thy  plots,  thy 

Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at 

pleasure  thither 

least, 

Christ  purged  the  temple;  so  must 

If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weari- 

thou thy  heart. 

ness 

All  worldly  thoughts  are  but  these 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast. 

met  together 

To  cozen  thee.  Look  to  thy  ac- 
tions well : 

[From  the  Church  Parch  ] 

For  churches  either  are  our  heaven 
or  hell. 

ADVICE  ON  CHURCH  BEHAVIOR. 

Judge  not  the  preacher ;  for  he  is  thy 

When   once    thy   foot    enters    the 

judge: 

church,  be  bare. 

If  thou  mislike  him,  thou  conceivest 

God  is  more  there  than  thou :  for  thou 

him  not. 

art  there 

God  calleth  preaching  folly.     Do  not 

Only  by  his  permission.     Then  be- 

grudge 

ware, 

To  pick  out  treasures  from  an  earthen 

And  make  thyself  all  reverence  and 

pot. 

fear. 

The  worst  speak  something  good : 

if  all  want  sense. 

Kneeling  ne'er  spoil'd  silk  stock- 

God takes  a  text  and  preaches  pa- 

ings: quit  thy  state. 

tience. 

All  equal  are  within  the  church's 

gate. 

Resort  to   sermons,  but  to  prayers 

most: 

Praying's  the  end  of  preaching.     O 

[From  the  Church  Porch.] 

be  drest; 

SUM  UP  AT  NIGHT. 

Stay  not  for  the  other  pin :  why  thou 

hast  lost 

Sum  up  at  night,   what  thou  hast 

A  joy  for  it  worth  worlds.    Thus  hell 

done  by  day; 

doth  jest 

And  in  the  morning,  what  thou  hast 

Away  thy  blessings,  and  extremely 

to  do. 

flout  thee. 

Dress  and  undress  thy  soul:  mark 

Thy  clothes  being  fast,  but  thy  soul 

the  decay 

loose  about  thee. 

And  growth  of  it :  if  with  thy  watch 

that  too 

In  time  of  service  seal  up  both  thine 

Be  down,  then  wind  up  both,  since 

eyes. 

we  shall  be 

And  send  them  to  thine  heart;  that 

Most  surely  judged,  make  thy  ac- 

spying sin, 

counts  agree. 

EERRICK. 


265 


In  brief,  acquit  thee  bravely ;  play  the 

man. 
Look  uot  on  pleasures  as  they  come, 

but  go. 
Defer  not  the  least  virtue;  life's  poor 

span 
Make  not  an  ell,  by  trifling  in  thy  wo. 
If  thou  do  ill,  the  joy  fades,  not  the 

pains : 
If  well ;  the  pain  doth  fade,  the  joy 

remains. 


BOSOM  SIN. 

Lord,  with  what  care  hast  thou  be- 
girt us  round ! 
Parents  first  season  us:  then  school- 
masters 
Deliver  us  to  laws:  they  send  us 
bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messengers, 

Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging 
sin, 
Afflictions  sorted,  anguish  of   all 

sizes, 
Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch 
us  in. 
Bibles  laid    open,    millions  of  sur- 
prises. 

Blessings  beforehand,  ties  of  grate- 
fulness, 
The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our 


Without,  our  shame;  within,  our 
consciences ; 
Angels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and 
fears. 

Yet  all  these  fences  and  their  whole 

array 
One  cunning  bosom-sin  blows  quite 

away. 


VIBTUE. 

Sweet   dajs  so   cool,  so  calm,  so 

bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky; 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angry  and 

brave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and 

roses. 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives ; 
Bat  though  the  whole  world  turn  to 
coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives. 


Robert  Herrick. 


TO  PERILLA, 

Ah,  my  Perilla!  dost  thou  grieve  to 

see   ' 
Me,  day  by  day,  to  steal  away  from 

thee  ? 
Age  calls  me  hence,  and  my  gray 

hairs  bid  come. 
And   haste    away   to  mine    eternal 

home; 


'Twill  not  be  long,  Perilla,  after  this 
That  I  must  give  thee  the  supreme  st 

kiss. 
Dead  when  I  am,  first  cast  in  salt, 

and  bring  (spring, 

Part  of  the  cream  from  that  religious 
With  which,  Perilla,  wash  my  hands 

and  feet; 
That  done,   then  wind  me  in  that 

very  sheet 


id66 


HE  BRICK. 


Which  wrapt  thy  smooth  limbs  when 

thou  didst  implore 
The  gods'  protection,  but  the  night 

before ; 
Follow  me  weeping  to  my  turf,  and 

there 
Let  fall  a  primrose,  and  with  it  a 

tear. 
Then  lastly,  let  some  weekly  strew- 

ings  be 
Devoted  to  the  memory  of  me  ; 
Then  shall  my  ghost  not  walk  about, 

but  keep 
Still  in  the  cool  and  silent  shades  of 

sleep. 


THE  PRIMROSE. 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here 
This  sweet  infanta  of  the  year  ? 
Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 
This  primrose,  thus  bepearled  with 

dew  ? 
I  will  whisper  to  your  ears, 
The  sweets  of  love  are  mixed  with 

tears. 
Ask  me  why  this  flower  does  show 
So  yellow  green  and  sickly  too  ? 
Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak 
And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ? 
I  will  answer,  these  discover 
What  fainting  hopes  are  in  a  lover. 


THREE  EPITAPHS. 

UPON  A  CHILD 

Here  she  lies,  a  pretty  bud, 
Lately  made  of  flesh  and  blood ; 
Who  so  soon  fell  fast  asleep 
As  her  little  eyes  did  peep. 
Give  her  strew ings,  but  not  stir, 
The  earth  that  lightly  covers  her! 

UPON  A  CHILD. 

Virgins  promised  when  I  died. 
That  they  would,  each  primrose-tide, 
Duly  mom  and  evening  come. 
And  with  flowers  dress  my  tomb : 
Having  promised,  pay  your  debts, 
Maids,  and  here  strew  violets. 


UPON   A  MAID. 

Here  she  lies,  in  beds  of  spice, 
Fair  as  Eve  in  paradise ; 
For  her  beauty  it  was  such, 
Poets  could  not  praise  too  much. 
Virgins,  come,  and  in  a  ring 
Her  supremest  requiem  sing; 
Then  depart,  but  see  ye  tread 
Lightly,  lightly  o'er  the  dead. 


HOW  THE  HEART'S  EASE  FIRST 
CAME. 

Frolic  virgins  once  these  were, 
Over-loving,  living  here ; 
Being  here  their  ends  denied, 
Ran  for  sweethearts  mad  and  died. 
Love,  in  pity  of  their  tears, 
And  their  loss  of  blooming  years. 
For  their  restless  here-spent  hours, 
Gave    them   heart' s-ease    turned  to 
flowers. 


LITANY  TO   THE  HOLY  SPIRIT 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress 
When  temptations  me  oppress. 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  I 

WTien  I  lie  within  my  bed. 
Sick  at  heart,  and  sick  in  head, 
And  with  doubts  discomforted. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  Meep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  hope,  but  of  his  fees. 
And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill. 
His  or  none  or  little  skill, 
Meet  for  nothing,  but  to  kill  — 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 


HERVE7. 


267 


When  the  passin;  bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  Furies,  in  a  shoal, 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few. 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  I  nod  to  what  he  said 
Because  my  speech  is  now  decayed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

When,  God  knows,  I  'm  tost  about 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt. 
Yet  before  the  glass  be  out, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  Tempter  me  pursu'th. 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth. 
And  half  damns  me  with  untruth 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears,  and  fright  mine 

eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  judgment  is  revealed. 
And  that  opened  which  was  sealed  — 
When  to  Thee  I  have  appealed. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


TO  KEEP  A   TRUE  LENT. 

Is  this  a  fast  —  to  keep 
The  larder  lean. 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  * 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish  ? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour — 
Or  ragged  go  — 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour  ? 

No!  'tis  a  fast  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 
And  meat. 
Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate, 
And  hate  — 
To  circumcise  thy  life, 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent; 
To  starve  thy  sin, 
Not  bin  — 
And  that's  to  keep  thy  Lent. 


Thomas   Kibble   Hervey. 


CLEOPATRA  EMBARKING   ON  THE 
CYDNUS. 

Flutes  in  the  sunny  air! 
And     harps     in     the     porphyry 
halls! 
And  a  low,  deep  hum  like  a  people's 
prayer, 
With  its  heart-breathed  swells  and 
falls! 
And  an  echo  like  the  desert's  call. 

Flung  back  to  the  shouting  shores! 
And  the  river's  ripple  heard  through 
all, 
As  it  plays  with  the  silver  oars !  —  ' 


The  sky  is  a  gleam  of  gold, 
And  the  amber  breezes  float 

Like  thoughts  to  be  dreamed  of,  but 
never  told, 
Around  the  dancing  boat ! 

She  has  stepped  on  the  burning  sand; 
And    the    thousand    tongues    are 
mute. 
And  the  Syrian  strikes  with  a  trem- 
bling hand 
The  strings  of  his  gilded  lute ! 
And  the  Ethiop's  heart  throbs  loud 
and  high 
Beneath  his  white  symar, 


268 


IlEYWODD. 


And  the  Libyan  kneels,  as  he  meets 
her  eye, 
Like  the  flash  of  an  eastern  star! 
The  gales  may  not  be  heard. 

Yet  the  silken  streamers  quiver. 
And  the  vessel  shoots,  like  a  bright- 
plumed  bird. 
Away  down  the  golden  river! 


Away  by  the  lofty  mount, 

And  away  by  the  lonely  shore, 
And  away  by  the  gushing  of  many  a 
fount. 

Where  fountains  gush  no  more !  — 
Oh,  for  some  warning  vision  there, 

Some  voice  that  should  have  spoken 
Of  climes  to  be  laid  waste  and  bare 

And  glad  young  spirits  broken ! 
Of  waters  dried  away. 

And  hope  and  beauty  blasted ! 
That  scenes  so  fair  and  hearts  so  gay 

Should  be  so  early  wasted ! 


EPITAPH. 

Farewell!  since  nevermore  for  thee 
The  sun  comes  up  our  earthly  skies, 

Less  bright  henceforth  shall  sun- 
shine be  (eyes. 
To  some  fond  hearts  and  saddened 

There  are  who,  for  thy  last  long  sleep. 

Shall  sleep  as  sweetly  nevermore, 
Must  weep  because  thou  canst  not 

weep. 
And  grieve  that  all  thy  griefs  are  o'er. 

Sad  thrift  of  love! — the  loving  breast, 
Whereon  thine  aching  head  was 
thrown. 

Gave  up  the  weary  head,  to  rest, 
But  kept  the  aching  for  its  own, 

Till  pain  shall  find  the  same  low  bed 
That  pillows  now  thy  painless  head, 
And  following  darkly  through   the 
night,  [light. 

Love  reach  thee  by  the  founts  of 


Thomas  Heywood. 


GOOD-MORROW. 


Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow ; 

Sweet  air,  blow  soft;  mount,  larks, 
aloft. 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her 
mind, 
Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 

Bird, prune  thy  wing,nightingale,sing, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 


Wake   from    thy    nest,    robin    red- 
breast. 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbird     and     thrush     in     every 
bush. 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow; 
You  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves, 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 


HIGGINSON.  —  HII.LARD. 


269 


Thomas  Wentworth   Higginson. 


DECORATION, 
•*  Manibus  date  liliaplenis." 

'Mid  the  flower-wreathed  tombs  I 

stand, 
Bearing  lilies  in  my  hand. 
Comrades!  in  what  soldier-grave 
ISleeps  the  bravest  of  the  brave  ? 
Is  it  he  who  sank  to  rest 
With  his  colors  round  his  breast  ? 
Friendship  makes  his  tomb  a  shrine, 
Garlands  veil  it ;  ask  not  mine. 
One  lone  grave,  yon  trees  beneath, 
Bears  no  roses,  wears  no  wreath ; 
Yet  no  heart  more  high  and  warm 
Ever  dared  the  battle-storm. 

Never  gleamed  a  prouder  eye 
In  the  front  of  victory : 


Never  foot  had  firmer  tread 
On  the  field  where  hope  lay  dead, 
Than  are  hid  within  this  tomb. 
Where  the  untended  grasses  bloom ; 
And  no  stone,  with  feigned  distress. 
Mocks  the  sacred  loneliness. 


Youth  and  beauty,  dauntless  will, 
Dreams  that  life  could  ne  er  fulfil. 
Here  lie  buried  —  here  in  peace 
Wrongs  and  ^'oes   have   found    re* 

l€ 


Turning  from  my  comrades'  eyes. 
Kneeling  where  a  woman  lies, 
I  strew  lilies  on  the  grave 
Of  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 


George  Stillman  Hillard. 


LAKE  GEORGE. 

How  oft  in  visions  of  the  night. 
How  oft  in  noonday  dreaming,    . 
I've  seen,  fair  lake,  thy  forest  wave, — 
Have  seen  thy  waters  gleaming; 
Have  heard  the  blowing  of  the  winds 
That  sweep  along  thy  highlands, 
And  the  light  laughter  of  the  waves 
That  dance  around  thine  islands. 

It  was  a  landscape  of  the  mind. 

With  forms  and  hues  ideal. 

But  still  those  hues  and  forms  ap- 
peared 

More  lovely  than  aught  real. 

I  feared  to  see  the  breathing  scene. 

And  brooded  o'er  the  vision. 

Lest  the  hard  touch  of  truth  should 
mar 

A  picture  so  Elysian. 

But  now  I  break  the  cold  distrust 
Whose  spells  so  long  had  bound  me; 
The  shadows  of  the  night  are  past, — 
The  morning  shines  around  me. 


And  in  the  sober  light  of  day, 
I  see,  with  eyes  enchanted. 
The  glorious  vision  that  so  long 
My  day  and  night  dreams  haunted. 

I  see  the  green,  translucent  wave, 
The  purest  of  earth's  fountains: 
I  see  the  many-winding  shore,  — 
The  double  range  of  mountains : 
One,  neighbor  to  the  flying  clouds. 
And  crowned  with  leaf  and  blossom, 
And  one,  more  lovely,  borne  within 
The  lake's  unruflled  bosom. 

O  timid  heart!  with  thy  glad  throbs 
Some  self-reproach  is  blended. 
At  the  long  years  that  died  before 
The  sight  of  scene  so  splendid. 
The  mind  has  pictures  of  its  own, 
Fair  trees  and  waters  flowing  — 
But  not  a  magic  whole  like  this, 
So  living,  breathing,  glowing; 

Strength  imaged  in  the  wooded  hi.Us, 
A  grand,  primeval  nature. 


270 


HOFFMAN. 


And  beauty  mirrored  in  the  lake, 

A  gentler,  softer  feature ; 

A  perfect  union,  — where  no  want 

Upon  the  soul  is  pressing ; 

Like  manly  power  and  female  grace 

Made  one  by  bridal  blessing. 

Xor  is  the  stately  scene  without 
Its  sweet,  secluded  treasures. 
Where  hearts  that  shun  the  crowd 

may  find 
Their  own  exclusive  pleasures ; 
Deep  chasms  of  shade  for  pensive 

thought, 
The  hours  to  wear  aw^  in ; 
And  vaulted  aisles, of  whispering  pine. 
For  lovers'  feet  to  stray  in ; 

Clear  streams  that  from  the  uplands 

run, 
A  course  of  sunless  shadow ; 
Isles  all  unfurrowed  by  the  plough, 
And  strips  of  fertile  meadow ; 
And  rounded  coves  of  silver  sand, 
Where  moonlight  plays  and  glances, — 
A  sheltered  hall  for  elfin  horns, 
A  floor  for  elfin  dances. 

No  tame  monotony  is  here, 
But  beauty  ever  changing; 


With    clouds,   and  shadows  of    the 

clouds. 
And  mists  the  hillsides  ranging. 
Where  morning's  gold,  and  noon's 

hot  sun. 
Their  changing  glories  render ; 
Pour  round    the    shores   a  varying 

light, 
Now  glowing  and  now  tender. 

But  purer  than  the  shifting  gleams 

By  liberal  sunshine  given. 

Is  the  deep  spirit  of  that  hour,  — 

An  effluence  breathed  from  heaven ; 

When  the  unclouded,  yellow  moon 

Hangs  o'er  the  eastern  ridges. 

And    the    long   shaft   of    trembling 

gold. 
The  trembling  crystal  bridges. 

Farewell,  sweet  lake!  brief  were  the 

hours 
Along  thy  banks  for  straying; 
But    not     farewell    what    memory 

takes,  — 
An  image  undecaying. 
I  hold  secure  beyond  all  change 
One  lovely  recollection, 
To  cheer  the  hours  of  lonely  toil. 
And  chase  away  dejection. 


Charles  Fenno   Hoffman. 


MONTEREY. 

We  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day ; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 
Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,   now  there,   the  shot  it 
hailed 
In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray. 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them 
wailed 
Their  dying  shouts  at  Monterey. 


And  on,  still  on  our  column  kept, 
Through  walls  of  flame,  its  wither- 
ing way; 
Where    fell    the    dead,    the    living 

stept. 
Still    charging    on  the  guns  which 
swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 


The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 
When,  striking  where  he  strongest 

lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking    batteries 

past, 


HOGG  — HOLLAND. 


271 


And,   braving  full  their  murderous 
blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Mon- 
terey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play; 
Where  orange  boughs   above    their 
grave 


Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many,  —  we  who  pressed 

Beside   the    braye   who   fell    that 

day: 

But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 

He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 

Than  not  have  been  at  Monterej  ? 


James  Hogg. 


THE  SKYLARK. 


Bird  of  the  wilderness 
Blithesome  and  cumberless, 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland 
and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 

Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 
Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud. 
Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 

Love  gives  itenergy,love  gave  it  birth, 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing. 
Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on 
earth. 


O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 
O'er  moor  and  mountain  green. 

O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the 
day. 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 
Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away! 
Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 
Low  in  the  heather  blooms. 

Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of 
love  be ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 

Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  I 


JosiAH   Gilbert  Holland. 


[From  Bitter-Sweet.'] 

A   SONG   OF  DOUBT. 

The  day  is  quenched,  and  the  sun  is 
fled; 
God  has  forgotten  the  world ! 
The  moon  is  gone,  and  the  stars  are 
dead ; 
God  has  forgotten  the  world ! 

Evil  has  won  in  the  horrid  feud 
Of  ages  with  The  Throne ; 

Evl}  stands  on  the  neck  of  Gk)od, 
And  rules  the  world  alone. 


There  is  no  good ;  there  is  no  God ; 

And  Faith  is  a  heartless  cheat 
Who  bares  the  backf  or  the  Devil' s  rod. 

And  scatters  thorns  for  the  feet. 

What  are  prayers  in  the  lips  of  death; 

Filling  and  chilling  with  hail  ? 
What  are  prayers  but  wasted  brea'.h 

Beaten  back  by  the  gale  ? 

[fled; 
The  day  is  quenched,  and  the  sun  is 

God  has  forgotten  the  world ! 
The  moon  is  gone,  and  the  stars  aie 
dead; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world  I 


272 


HOLLAND. 


[From  Bitter- Sweet.'] 
A  SONG   OF  FAITH. 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  boon ; 

God  will  remember  the  world  ! 
Night  will  come  witli  a  newer  moon ; 

God  will  remember  the  world! 

Evil  is  only  the  slave  of  Good ; 

Sorrow  the  servant  of  Joy ; 
And  the  soul  is  mad  that  refuses  food 

Of  the  meanest  in  God's  employ. 

The  fountain  of  joy  is  fed  by  tears, 
And  love  is  lit  by  the  breath  of 
sighs; 
The  deepest  griefs  and  the  wildest 
fears 
Have  holiest  ministries. 

Strong  grows  the  oak  in  the  sweeping 
storm ; 
Safely  the  flower  sleeps  under  the 
snow; 
And   the  farmer's  hearth  is  never 
warm 
Till  the  cold  wind  starts  to  blow. 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  boon; 

God  will  remember  the  world ! 
Night  will  come  with  a  newer  moon; 

God  will  remember  the  world ! 


[From  Bitter- Sioeet.] 

WHAT  IS   THE  LITTLE   ONE 
THINKING  ABOUT? 

What   is   the   little   one    thinking 

about  ? 
Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt. 
Unwritten  historj^ ! 
Unf athomed  mystery ! 
Yet  he  laughs  and  cries,  and  eats  and 

drinks, 
And  chuckles  and  crows,  and  nods 

and  winks. 
As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphinx ! 

Warped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears, 
Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by 

fears, 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years ; 


And  he'll  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go; — 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he^ll  find  it  so ! 


Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks  ? 
Who  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 

By  which  the  manikin  feels  his  way 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  un- 
known, 
Blind,  and  wailing,  and  all  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day  ?  — 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown 

sea. 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony,  — 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and 

rolls. 
Specked    with    the    barks    of    little 

souls,  — 
Barks   that  were  launched   on   the 

other  side. 
And  slipped  from  heaven  on  an  ebb- 
ing tide ! 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's 
eyes  ? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  moth- 
er's hair? 
What  of  the  cradle-roof  that  flies 
Forward    and   backward    through 

the  air? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  moth- 
er's breast,  — 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white. 
Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight,  — 
Cup  of  his  life  and  couch  of  his  rest  ? 
What  does  he  think  when  her  quick 

embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 
Deep   where   the   heart-throbs    sink 

and  swell 
With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell. 
Though  she  murmur  the  words 
Of  all  the  birds,  — 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur 
well  ? 
Now  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleep! 
I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 
Over  his  eyes  in  soft  eclipse. 
Over  his  brow,  and  over  his  lips, 
Out  to  his  little  finger-tips  ; 
Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes !  * 
Down  he  goes !    Down  he  goes ! 
See!    He  is  hushed  in  sweet  re 
pose ! 


HOLLAND. 


273 


{From  Bitter-Sweet.} 

STRENGTH  THROUGH  RESISTED 
TEMPTATION. 

God  loves  not  sin,  nor  I ;  but  in  the 

throng 
Of  evils  that  assail  us,  there  are  none 
That  yield  their  strength  to  Virtue's 

struggling  arm 
With    such    munificent    reward    of 

power 
As  great  temptations.     We  may  win 

by  toil 
Endurance ;  saintly  fortitude  by  pain ; 
By  sickness,  patience ;  faith  and  trust 

by  fear; 
But  the  great  stimulus  that  spurs  to 

life, 
And  crowds  to  generous  development 
Each  chastened  power  and  passion  of 

the  soul, 
Is  the  temptation  of  the  soul  to  sin, 
liesisted,  and  reconquered,  evermore. 


IFrom  Bitter-Sweet.] 
THE  PRESS  OF  SORROW. 

Hearts,  like  apples,  are  hard  and 

sour, 
Till    crushed    by    Pain's    resistless 

power ; 
And  yield  their  juices  rich  and  bland 
To  none  but  Sorrow's  heavy  hand. 
The  purest  streams  of  human  love 

Flow  naturally  never, 
But  gush  by  pressure  from  above. 

With  God's  hand  on  the  lever. 
The  first  are  turbidest  and  meanest ; 
The  last  are  sweetest  and  serenest. 


[From  Bitter- Sweet.] 
LIFE  FROM  DEATH. 

Life  evermore  is  fed  by  death. 

In  earth  and  sea  and  sky ; 
And,   that  a  rose  may  breathe 
breath. 

Something  must  die. 


its 


Earth  is  a  sepulchre  of  flowers, 

Whose  vitalizing  mould 
Through    boundless    transmutation 
towers. 

In  green  and  gold. 

The   oak-tree,    straggling   with   the 
blast, 
Devours  its  father-tree. 
And  sheds  its  leaves  and  drops  its 
mast, 

That  more  may  be. 

The  falcon  preys  upon  the  finch. 

The  finch  upon  the  fly, 
And  nought  will  loose  the  hunger- 
pinch 

But  death's  wild  cry. 

The  milk-haired  heifer's  life  must 
pass 
That  it  may  fill  your  own, 
As    passed    the    sweet   life   of    the 
grass 

She  fed  upon. 

The  power  enslaved  by  yonder  cask 

Shall  many  burdens  bear ; 
Shall  nerve  the  toiler  at  his  task, 
The  soul  at  prayer. 

From  lowly  woe  springs  lordly  joy ; 

From  humbler  good  diviner; 
The  greater  life  must  aye  destroy 
And  drink  the  minor. 

From   hand   to   hand   life's   cup   is 
passed 
Up  Being's  piled  gradation, 
Till  men  to  angels  yield  at  last 
The  rich  collation. 


[From  Bitter- Sweet.] 
WORTH  AND   COST. 

Thus  is  it  over  all  the  earth ! 

That  which  Ave  call  the  fairest, 
And  prize  for  its  surpassing  worth, 
Is  ahvavs  rarest. 


274 


HOLLAND. 


Iron  is  heaped  in  mountain  piles, 

And  gluts  the  laggard  forges : 
But  gold-flakes  gleam  in  dim  defiles 
And  lonely  gorges. 

The  snowy  marble  flecks  the  land 

With  heaped  and  rounded  ledges, 
But  diamonds  hide  within  the  sand 
Their  starry  edges. 

The  finny  armies  clog  the  twine 

That  sweeps  the  lazy  river. 
But  pearls  come  singly  from  the  brine, 
With  the  pale  diver. 

God  gives  no  value  unto  men 

Unmatched  by  meed  of  labor; 
And  Cost,  of  Worth,  has  ever  been 
The  closest  neighbor. 

Wide  is  the  gate  and  broad  the  way 

That  opens  to  perdition. 
And  countless  multitudes  are  they 
Who  seek  admission. 

But  strait  the  gate,  the  path  unkind. 

That  leads  to  life  immortal. 
And  few  the  careful  feet  that  find, 
The  hidden  portal. 

All  common  good  has  common  price ; 

Exceeding  good,  exceeding; 
Christ  bought  the  keys  of  Paradise 
By  cruel  bleeding; 

And  every  soul  that  wins  a  place 

Upon  its  hills  of  pleasure, 
Must  give  its  all,  and  beg  for  grace 
To  fill  the  measure. 


[From  jBitter-Sweet.] 
CRADLE  SONG. 

HiTHEE,  Sleep !  a  mother  wants  thee ! 

Come  with  velvet  arms! 
Fold  the  baby  that  she  grants  thee 

To  thy  own  soft  charms ! 

Bear  him  into  Dreamland  lightly! 

Give  him  sight  of  flowers ! 
Do  not  bring  him  back  till  brightly 

Break  the  morning  hours ! 


Close  his  eyes  with  gentle  fingers ! 

Cross  his  hands  of  snow! 
Tell  the  angels  where  he  lingers 

They  must  whisper  low ! 


1  will  guard  thy  spell  unbroken 

If  thou  hear  my  call ; 
Come,  then.  Sleep !  I  wait  the  token 

Of  thy  downy  thrall. 

Now  I  see  his  sweet  lips  moving ; 

He  is  in  thy  keep ; 
Other  milk  the  babe  is  proving 

At  the  breast  of  Sleep ! 


IFrom  Bitter-Sweet.'] 
TO  AN  INFANT  SLEEPING. 

Sleep,  babe,  the  honeyed  sleep  of 

innocence ! 
Sleep  like  a  bud ;  for  soon  the  sun  of 

life 
With  ardors   quick   and  passionate 

shall  rise. 
And  with  hot  kisses,  part  the  fra- 
grant lips  — 
The  folded  petals  of  thy  soul !    Alas ! 
What  feverish  winds  shall  tease  and 

toss  thee,  then ! 
What  pride  and  pain,  ambition  and 

despair. 
Desire,  satiety,  and  all  that  fill 
With  misery,  life's  fretful  enterprise, 
Shall  wrench  and  blanch  thee,  till 

thou  fall  at  last, 
Joy  after  joy  down-fluttering  to  the 

earth, 
To  be  apportioned  to  the  elements ! 
I  marvel,  baby,  whether  it  were  ill 
That  he  who  planted  thee   should 

pluck  thee  now, 
And  save  thee  from  the  blight  that 

comes  on  all, 
I  marvel  whether  it  would  not  be  well 
That  the  frail  bud  should  burst  in 

Paradise, 
On  the  full  throbbing  of  an  angel's 

heart  I 


HOLLAND. 


275 


[From  the  Marble  Prophecy.'] 

THE    TYPE    OF  STRUGGLIKG 
HUMANITY. 

Laocoon  !  thou  great  embodiment 

Of  human  life  and  human  histoiy! 

Thou  recoi-d  of  the  past,  thou  proph- 
ecy 

Of  the  sad  f  utui-e,  thou  majestic  voice, 

Pealing  along  the  ages  from  old  time ! 

Thou  wail  of  agonized  humanity ! 

There  lives  no  thought  in  marble  like 
to  thee ! 

Thou  hast  no  kindred  in  the  Vatican, 

But  standest  separate  among  the 
dreams 

Of  old  mythologies  —  alone  —  alone ! 

The  beautiful  Apollo  at  thy  side 

Is  but  a  marble  dream,  and  dreams 
are  all 

The  gods  and  goddesses  and  fauns 
and  fates 

That  populate  these  wondrous  halls ; 
but  thou, 

Standing  among  them,  liftest  up  thy- 
self 

In  majesty  of  meaning,  till  they  sink 

Far  from  the  sight,  no  more  signifi- 
cant 

Than  the  poor  toys  of  children.  For 
thou  art 

A  voice  from  out  the  world's  experi- 
ence, 

Speaking  of  all  the  generations  past 

To  all  the  generations  yet  to  come 

Of  the  long  struggle,  the  sublime  de- 
spair. 

The  wild  and  weary  agony  of  man ! 


ON  THE  RIGHI. 

On  the  Righi  Kulm  we  stood. 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
While  the  morning's  crimson  flood 

Streamed  along  the  eastern  sky. 
Reddened  every  mountain-peak 

Into  rose  from  twilight  dun ; 


But  the  blush  upon  her  cheek 
Was  not  lighted  by  the  sim ! 

On  the  Righi  Kulm  we  sat, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
Plucking  bluebells  for  her  hat 

From    a    mound    that   blossomed 
nigh. 
"  We  are  near  to  heaven,"  she  sighed, 

While  her  raven  lashes  fell. 
"Nearer,"  softly  I  replied, 

"  Than  the  mountain's  height  may 
tell." 


Down  the  Righi' s  side  we  sped, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
But  her  morning  blush  had  fled 

And  the  bluebells  all  were  dry. 
Of  the  height  the  dream  was  born ; 

Of  the  lower  air  it  died ; 
And  the  passion  of  the  morn 

Flagged  and  fell  at  eventide. 

From  the  breast  of  blue  Lucerne, 

Lovely  Floril^el  and  I 
Saw  the  brand  of  sunset  bum 

On  the  Righi  Kulm,  and  die. 
And  we  wondered,  gazing  thus. 

If  our  dream  would  still  remain 
On  the  height,  and  wait  for  us 

Till  we  climb  to  heaven  again ! 


WHAT   WILL  IT  MATTER? 

If  life  awake  and  will  never  cease 
On  the  future's  distant  shore, 

And  the  rose  of  love  and  the  lily  of 
peace 
Shall  bloom  there  forevermore, — 

Let  the  world  go  round  and  round. 
And  the  sun  sink  into  the  sea ; 

For  whether  I'm  on  or  under  the 
ground. 
Oh,  what  will  it  matter  to  me  ? 


276 


HOLME  —  HOLMES. 


Saxe  Holme. 


THREE  KISSES   OF  FAREWELL. 

Thkee,  only  three,  my  darling, 

Separate,  solemn,  slow; 
Not  like  the  swift  and  joyous  ones, 

We  used  to  know 
When  we  kissed  because  we  loved 
each  other 

Simply  to  taste  love's  sweet. 
And  lavished  our  kisses  as  the  sum- 
mer 

Lavishes  heat ;  — 
But  as  they  kiss  whose  hearts  are 
wrung, 

When  hope  and  fear  are  spent, 
And  nothing  is  left  to  give  except 

A  sacrament ! 

First  of  the  three,  my  darling. 

Is  sacred  unto  pain ; 
We  have  hurt  each  other  often : 

We  shall  again. 
When  we  pine  becaui^  we  miss  each 
other, 

And  do  not  understand. 
How  the  written  words  are  so  much 
colder 

Than  eye  and  hand. 
I  kiss  thee,  dear,  for  all  such  pain 

Which  we  may  give  or  take ; 


Buried,  forgiven,  before  it  comes. 
For  our  love's  sake! 


The  second  kiss,  my  darling, 

Is  full  of  joy's  sweet  thrill; 
We  have  blessed  each  other  always ; 

We  always  will. 
We  shall  reach  till  we  feel  each  other, 

Past  all  of  time  and  space ; 
We   shall   listen  till  we   hear  each 
other 

In  every  place; 
The  earth  is  full  of  messengers 

Which  love  sends  to  and  fro ; 
I  kiss  thee,  darling,  for  all  joy 

AVhich  we  shall  know ! 


The  last  kiss,  oh,  my  darling, 

My  love  —  I  cannot  see 
Through  my  tears,  as  I  remember 

What  it  may  be. 
We  may  die  and  never  see  each  other, 

Die  with  no  time  to  give 
Any  sign  that  our  hearts  are  faithful 

To  die,  as  live. 
Token  of  what  they  will  not  see 

Who  see  our  parting  breath. 
This  one  last  kiss,  my  darling,  seals 

The  seal  of  death ! 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE   VOICELESS. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 
Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers 
slumber. 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 
The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to 
number  ? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string. 
And  noisy  fame  is  proud  to  win 
them :  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 
But  die  with  all  their  music   in 
them! 


Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 
Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts' 
sad  story,  — 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,   who  have 
known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of 
glory ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 
O'er    Sappho's     memory-haunted 
billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews 
weep 
On  nameless  Sorrow's  churchyard 
pillow. 


HOLMES. 


277 


O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save    whitening    lip    and    fading 
tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crush- 
ing presses,  — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  1 


DOROTHY  Q. 
A  FA3IILY  PORTRAIT. 

Grandmother's  mother:  her  age  I 
guess. 

Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less ; 

Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air: 

Smooth,  square  forehead  with  up- 
rolled  hair. 

Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed ; 

Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist; 

Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade ; 

So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 
Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene. 
Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 
Look!  there's  a  rent  the  light  shines 

through. 
Dark    with    a    century's    fringe    of 

dust,  — 
That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust! 
Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell,— 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has   long  been 

pressed : 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright. 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn, — 

Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born ! 

Ay!    since    the  galloping    Normans 

came, 
England's  annals  have   known  her 


I  And  still    to  the  three-hilled  rebel 

town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray  haired 
son. 

O  Damsel  Dorothy !  Dorothy  Q.  1 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save    to    daughter   or    son    might 

bring, 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land ; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and 

life! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered 

No. 
When  forth  the  tremulous  question 

came 
That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman 

name. 
And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 
The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's 

thrill  ? 
Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 
One  tenth  another  to  nine-tenths  me? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  Yes: 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less ; 
But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and 

blast, 
And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 
That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long ! 
There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that 

whispered  then 
You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred 

men. 

O  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  here  we 

are, 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's — all  their 

own,  — 
A  goodly  record  for  time  to  show 
Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago :  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me 

live  ? 


278 


HOLMES. 


It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid ! 

I  will  heal  the  stab  of  the  Red-Coat's 
blade, 

And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished 
frame. 

And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  house- 
hold name : 

So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and 
bright 

As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's 
light, 

And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and 
fears 

Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hun- 
dred years. 


UNDER  THE    VIOLETS. 

Her   hands    are  cold;   her  face  is 
white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go ; 
Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on 

snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies, 
In    peace    beneath    the   peaceful 
skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 
Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows 
round 
To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 
That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the 

ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her 
mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels 
run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins 
call. 
And  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun. 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them. 
all. 


For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky. 
Shall  greet    her  with  its  earliest 
cry. 

When  turning  round  their  dial  track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows 
pass. 
Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 
The  crickets,  sliding   through  the 

gi-ass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 
Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize . 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it 
rise! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood. 
Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  be- 
low? 
Say  only  this:  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies    withered  where  the  violets 
blow. 


NEARING   THE  SXOW-LINE. 

Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  misty 
vale, 
I  leave  the  bright  enamelled  zones 

below ; 
No  more  for  me  their  beauteous 
bloom  shall  glow, 
Their   lingering  sweetness  load  the 

morning  gale ; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scent- 
less, pale. 
That  on  their  ice-clad  stems,  all 

trembling  blow 
Along  the  margin    of    unmelting 
snow ; 
Yet  with  unsaddcned  voice  thy  verge 
I  hail. 


HOOD. 


279 


White  realm  of  peace  above  the 
flowering  line, 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky 
spires ! 
O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt 
planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain 
desires, 
And    all    the   unclouded  blue  of 
heaven  is  thine! 


THE   TWO  STREAMS. 

Behold  the  rocky  wall 
That  down  its  sloping  sides 
Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  blending 
as  they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides ! 

Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  towards  the  sun 
Tlirough  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone. 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled 
braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends. 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender 
rill, 
Each  widening  torrent  bends,  — 


From  the  same  cradle's  side. 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen 
tide. 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea! 


HYMN  OF  TRUST. 

O  Love   Divine,  that  stoopedst  tc 
share 
Our  sharpest  pang,   our  bitterest 
tear, 
On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care. 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art 
near ! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread. 

And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering 

year, 

No  path  we  shim,  no  darkness  dread. 

Our  hearts  still  whispering.  Thou 

art  near ! 

When    drooping   pleasure    tunis  to 
grief,      . 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to 
fear, 
The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering 
leaf. 
Shall  softly  tell  us.  Thou  art  near! 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 
O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 

Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 
Living  and  dying.  Thou  art  near! 


Thomas  Hood. 


MELANCHOL  Y. 

[From  the  Ode  thereon.'] 

Lo!  here    the  best,  the  worst,  the 

world 
Doth  now  remembfer  or  forget 
Are  in  one  common  rain  hurled; 
And  love  and  hate  are  calmly  met  — 
The  loveliest  eyes  that  ever  shone. 
The  fairest  hands,  and  locks  of  jet. 


Is 't  not  enough  to  vex  our  souls 

And  fill  our  eyes,  that  we  have  set 

Our  love  upon  a  rose's  leaf. 

Our  hearts  upon  a  violet  ? 

Blue  eyes,  red  cheeks,  are  frailer  yet; 

And,  sometimes,  at  their  swift  decay 

Beforehand  we  must  fret. 

The  roses  bud  and  bloom  again ; 

But  love  may  haunt  the  grave  of  love, 

And  watch  the  mould  in  vain. 


280 


ROOD, 


O  clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art 

mine. 
And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss ; 
For  tears  must  flow  to  wash  away 
A  thought  that  shows  so  stern   as 

this. 
Forgive,  if  somewhile  I  forget. 
In  woe  to  come,  the  present  bliss, 
As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 
Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis. 
E'en  so  the  dark    and   bright   will 

kiss; 
The  sunniest  things  throw  sternest 

shade ; 
And  there  is  even  a  happiness 
That  makes  the  heart  afraid ! 
Now  let  us  with  a  spell  invoke 
The  full-orbed    moon  to  grieve  our 

eyes; 
Not  bright,  not  bright  —  but  with  a 

cloud 
Lapped  all  about  her,  let  her  rise 
All  pale  and  dim,  as  if  from  rest. 
The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sim 
Had  crept  into  the  skies. 
The    moon!    she    is    the   source   of 

sighs. 
The  very  face  to  make  us  sad. 
If  but  to  think  in  other  times 
The  same  calm,  quiet  look  she  had. 
As  if  the  world  held  nothing  base, 
Or   vile    and  mean,    or    fierce    and 

bad  — 
The  same  fair  light  that  shone  in 

streams, 
The  fairy  lamp   that  charmed  the 

lad; 
For  so  it  is,  with  spent  delights 
She  taunts  men's  brains,  and  makes 

them  mad 


All  things  are  touched  with  melan- 
choly. 
Bom  of  the  secret  soul's  mistrust 
To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 
Weighed  down  with  vile,  degraded 

dust. 
Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 
Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust  — 
Like    the    sweet    blossoms    of    the 

May, 
Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 
Oh,  give  her  then  her  tribute  just. 


Her  sighs  and  tears,    and  musings 

holy! 
There  is  no  music  in  the  life 
That    sounds    with    idiot    laughter 

solely; 
There 's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth^ 
But  has  its  chord  in  melancholy. 


TO    A    CHILD    EMBRACING  HIS 
MOTHER. 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one ! 
Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again,  — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 
Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one ! 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes. 
And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee,  — 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes! 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told, 
Hereafter  thou  mayest  press  in  woe, 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold, 
Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow ! 

Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair ! 
Although  it  be  not  silver-gray — 
Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 
May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
Oh !  revere  her  raven  hair ! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 
That   Heaven  may  long  the  stroke 

defer, — 
For  thou  may'st  live  the  hour  forlorn 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn ! 


/  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  refncmbcr 
The  house  where  I  was  bom, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon; 


HOOD. 


281 


Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  1  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups  — 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 
The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  tliought  the  air  must  rush  as 

fresh 
To  swallows  on  the  wing; 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then. 
That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 
The  fever  on  my  brow  I 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky. 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance. 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through 
the  night 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak. 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears. 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 


For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and 
sad. 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 

Another  mom  than  oui's. 


THE  SONQ  OF  THE  SHIRT, 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  himger,  and  dirt; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous 
pitch 
She  sang  the  *'  Song  of  the  Shirt! " 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 
And  work  —  work  —  work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the 
roof! 
It's  oh!  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to 


If  this  is  Christian  work  I 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ! 
Work  —  work  —  w^ork 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  I 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam  — 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep. 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  I 

"  O  men,  with  sisters  dear! 

O  men,  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out! 

But  human  creatures'  lives ! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt  — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death  — 
That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 

I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape. 
It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 


282 


HOOD. 


It  seems  so  like  my  own 
Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep ; 
O  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 
And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

'  *  Work  —  work  —  work ! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?    A  bed  of 
straw, 
A  crust  of  bread,  and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof,  and  this  naked 
floor; 
A  table,  a  broken  chair ; 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I 
thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there ! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  I 
Work  —  work  —  work  — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band  — 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain 
benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 

In  the  dull  December  light! 
And  work  —  work  —  work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and 
bright  I  — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling. 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"O!  but *^^o  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ! 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  w^ant 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  O !  but  for  one  short  hour  — 

A  respite  however  brief  I 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread! " 


With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous 

pitch  — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the 
rich !  — 
She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt ! " 


THE  BRIDGE   OF  SIGHS. 

One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath. 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ! 
Fashioned  so  slenderly  — 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements, 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly. 
Loving,  not  loathing! 

Touch  her  not  scornfully ! 
Think  of  her  mournfully. 
Gently  and  humanly  — 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her; 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny. 
Rash  and  undutif  ul ; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers. 
One  of  Eve's  family  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb  — 


HOOD.                                            283 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses  — 

Take  her  up  tenderly  — 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses 

Lift  her  with  care! 

Where  was  her  home  ? 

Fashioned  so  slenderly  — 

Young  and  so  fair ! 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly, 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Stiffen  too  rigidly. 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 

Decently,  kindly, 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 

Smooth  and  compose  them; 

Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Staring  so  blindly ! 

Alas !  for  the  rarity 

Dreadfully  staring 

Of  Christian  charity 

Through  muddy  impurity, 

Under  the  sun ! 

As  when  with  the  daring 

Oh!  it  was  pitiful ! 

Last  look  of  despairing 

Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

Home  she  had  none. 

Perishing  gloomily, 

Sisterly,  brotherly,  - 

Spurred  by  contumely, 

Fatherly,  motherly 

Cold  inhumanity 

Feelings  had  changed  — 

Burning  insanity 

Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 

Into  her  rest! 

Thrown  from  its  eminence ; 

Cross  her  hands  humbly. 

Even  God's  providence 

As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Seeming  estranged. 

Over  her  breast ! 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river. 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement. 

And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 

Frc>m  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

FAREWELL,   LIFE! 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver: 

Farewei.i.,  Life !  my  senses  swim, 

But  not  the  dark  arch, 

And  the  world  is  growing  dim : 

Or  the  black  flowing  river; 

Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 

Mad  from  life's  history. 

Like  the  advent  of  the  night  — 

Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

Colder,  colder,  colder  still. 

Swift  to  be  hurled  — 

Upwards  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 

Any  where,  any  where 

Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows  — 

Outof  the  world! 

1  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose! 

In  she  plunged  boldly  — 

Welcome,  Life!  the  spirit  strives: 

No  matter  how  coldly. 

Strength  returns,  and  hope  revives; 

The  rough  river  ran  — 

Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 

Over  the  brink  of  it! 

Fly  like  shadows  at  the  mom  — 

Pictureit  — thinkof  it! 

O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom; 

Dissolute  man ! 

Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold  — 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould ! 

284 


HOUGHTON. 


BALLAD. 

It  was  not  in  the  winter 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses  — 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed ! 

That  churlish  season  never  frowned 

On  early  lovers  yet ! 
O,  no  —  the  world  was  newly  crowned 

With  flowers  when  first  we  met. 


'T  was  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go- 
But  still  you  held  me  fast ; 

It  was  the  time  of  roses,  — 
We  plucked  them  as  we  passed ! 


TRUE   DEATH. 

It  is  not  death,  that  some  time  in  a 

sigh 
This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its 

speechless  flight; 
That  some  time  these  bright  stars, 

that  now  reply 
In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in 

night; 
That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall 

perish  quite. 
And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to 

flow; 
That  thought  shall  cease,  and  the 

immortal  sprite 
Be  lapped  in  alien  clay  and  laid  be- 
low; 
It  is  not  death  to  know  this — but  to 

know 


That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at 

new  graves 
In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 
So  duly  and  so  oft,  —  and  when  grass 

waves 
Over  the  past-away,   there  may  be 

then 
Xo  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 


LOVE  BETTERED  BY   TIME. 

Love,  dearest  lady,  such  as  I  would 

speak, 
Lives  not  within  the  humor  of  the 

eye; 
Not  being  but  an  outward  phantasy 
That  skims  the  surface  of  a  tinted 

cheek,  — 
Else  it  Avould  wane  with  beauty,  and 

grow  weak. 
As  if  the  rose  made  summer  —  and 

so  lie 
Amongst  the  perishable  things  that 

die, 
Unlike  the  love  which  I  would  give 

and  seek; 
Whose  health  is  of  no  hue — to  feel 

decay 
With  cheeks'  decay,  that  have  a  rosy 

prime. 
Love  is  its  own  great  loveliness  al- 

way. 
And  takes    new  beauties  from  the 

touch  of  time ; 
Its  bough  owns  no  December  and  no 

May, 
But  bears  its  blossoms  into  winter's 

clime. 


George  Houghton. 


[From  The  Legend  of  St.  Olnfs  Kirk.] 

VALBORG    WATCHING  AXEUS  DEPARTURE, 

At  kirk  knelt  Valborg,  the  cold  altar-stone 
Reeling  beneath  her.     Filled  with  choking  grief 
She  could  not  say  good-bye,  but  by  a  page 
Her  rosary  sent  him ;  and  when  he  had  climbed 
His  horse,  and  on  the  far-off  bridge  she  heard 


EOUOHTOK 


285 


The  dull  tramp  of  his  troopers,  up  she  fared 

By  stair  and  ladder  to  old  Steindor's  post,  — 

For  he  was  mute,  and  could  not  nettle  her 

With  words'  cheap  guise  of  sympathy.    There  perched 

Beside  him  up  among  the  dusty  bells, 

She  pushed  her  face  between  the  muUions,  looked 

Across  the  world  of  snow,  lighted  like  day 

By  moon  and  moor-ild ;  saw  with  misty  eyes 

A  gleam  of  steel,  an  eagle's  feather  tall; 

And  through  the  clear  air  watched  it,  tossing,  pass 

Across  the  sea-line ;  saw  the  ship  lift  sail 

And  blow  to  southward,  catching  light  and  shade 

As  'mong  the  sheers  and  skerries  it  picked  out 

A  crooked  pathway;  saw  it  round  the  ness, 

And,  catching  one  last  flicker  of  the  moon, 

Fade  into  nothingness.     With  desolate  steps 

She  left  the  bellman  and  crept  down  the  stairs; 

Heard  all  the  air  re-echoing:  "  He  is  gone! "  — 

Felt  a  great  sob  behind  her  lips,  and  tears 

Flooding  the  sluices  of  her  eyes;  turned  toward 

The  empty  town,  and  for  the  first  time  saw 

That  Nidaros  was  small  and  irksome,  felt 

First  time  her  tether  galling,  and,  by  heaven ! 

Wished  she'd  been  born  a  man-child,  free  to  fare 

Unhindered  through  the  world's  wide  pastures,  free 

To  stand  this  hour  with  Axel  as  his  squire. 

And  with  him  brave  the  sea-breeze.     Aimlessly 

She  sought  the  scattered  gold-threads  that  had  fonned 

Life's  glowing  texture:  but  how  dull  they  seemed! 

How  bootless  the  long  waste  of  lagging  weeks, 

With  dull  do-over  of  mean  drudgeries. 

And  miserable  cheer  of  pitying  mouths 

Whistling  and  whipping  through  small  round  of  change 

Their  cowering  pack  of  saw  and  circumstance! 

How  slow  the  crutches  of  the  limping  years ! 


[Six  Quatrains  from  Album-Leaves.] 
COURAGE. 

Darkness  before,  all  joy  behind ! 
Yet  keep  thy  courage,  do  not  mind : 
He  soonest  reads  the  lesson  right 
Who  reads  with  back    against  the 
light! 


AMBITION, 

The  palace  with  its  splendid  dome, 
That  nearest  to  the  sky  aspires. 

Is  first  to  challenge  storms  that  roam 
A  bove  it,  and  call  down  their  fires. 


THIS  NAME   OF  MIKE. 

This  name  of  mine  the  sun  may  steal 

away. 
Fierce   fire   consume    it,  moths   eat 

name  and  day; 
Or  mildew's  hand  may  smooch  it  with 

decay,  — 
But  not  my  love,  for  that  shall  live 

alway. 


REGRET. 

I've  regretted  most  sincerely, 
I've  repented  deeply,  long; 

But  to  those  I've  loved  most  dearly, 
I've  oftenest  done  wrong. 


286 


SOUGHl  !>N. 


PURITY. 

Let  your  truth  stand  sure, 
And  the  world  is  true ; 

Let  your  heart  keep  pure  — 
And  the  world  will,  too. 


He 


CHARITY. 

doubt,    perhaps   he 


erred,    no 
sinned ; 

Shall  I  then  dare  to  east  a  stone  ? 
Perhaps  this  blotch,  on  a  garment 
white, 
Counts  less  than  the  dingy  robes  I 
own. 


\_From  Album-Leaves.'] 
DAISY. 

I  GAVE  my  little  girl  back  to  the 
daisies. 
From  them  it  was  that  she  took  her 
name; 
1  gave  my  precious  one  back  to  the 
daisies, 
From  where  they  caught  their  color 
she  came; 
And  now,  when  I  look  in  the  face  of 
a  daisy. 
My  little  girl's  face  I  see,  I  see! 
My  tears,  down  dropping,  with  theirs 
commingle, 
And  they  give  my  precious  one 
back  to  me. 


Lord  Houghton  (Richard  Monckton  Milnes). 


SINCE    YESTERDAY. 

I'm  not  where  I  was  yesterday. 
Though  my  home  be  still  the  same, 
For  I  have  lost  the  veriest  friend 
Whomever  a  friend  could  name ; 
I'm  not  where  I  was  yes'.erday. 
Though  change  there  be  little  to  see. 
For  a  part  of  myself  has  lapsed  away 
From  Time  to  Eternity. 

I  have  lost  a  thought  that  many  a 

year 
Was  most  familiar  food 
To  my  inmost  mind,  by  night  or  day. 
In  merry  or  plaintive  mood ; 
I  have  lost  a  hope,  that  many  a  year 
Looked  far  on  a  gleaming  way. 
When  the  walls  of  Life  were  closing 

round. 
And  the  sky  was  sombre  gray. 


I  thought,  how  should  I  see  him  first. 
How  should  our  hands  first  meet, 
Within  his  room,  —  upon  the  stair, — 
At  the  corner  of  the  street  ? 
I  thought,  where  should  I  hear  him 
first. 


How  catch  his  greeting  tone,  — 
And  thus  I  went  up  to  his  door. 
And  they  told  me  he  was  gone ! 

Oh !  what  is  Life  but  a  sum  of  love, 
And  Death  but  to  lose  it  all  ? 
Weeds  be  for  those  that  are  left  be- 
hind, 
And  not  for  those  that  fall ! 
And  now  how  mighty  a  sum  of  love 

Is  lost  for  ever  to  me 

No,  I'm  not  what  I  was  yesterday, 
Though  change  there  be  little  to  see. 


LABOR. 


Heart  of  the  people!  Working  msn! 
Marrow  and  nerve  of  human  powers? 
Who  on  your  sturdy  backs  sustain 
Through  streaming  time  this  world 

of  ours ; 
Hold    by    that    title,  —  which    pro- 
claims. 
That  ye  are  undismayed  and  strong. 
Accomplishing  whatever  aims 
May  to  the  sons  of  earth  belong. 


EOUQHTON, 


287 


And  he  who  still  and  silent  sits 
In  closed  room  or  shady  nook^ 
And  seems  to  nurse  his  idle  wits 
With  folded  arms  or  open  book :  — 
To  things  now  working  in  that  mind, 
Yoin-  children's  children   well  may 

owe 
Blessings  that  hope  has  ne'er  defined 
Till  from  his  busy  thoughts  they  flow. 

Thus  all  must  work  —  with  head  or 

hand, 

For  self  or  others,  good  or  ill : 
Life  is  ordained  to  bear,  like  land, 
Some  fruit,  be  fallow  as  it  will ; 
Evil  has  force  itself  to  sow 
Where  we  deny  the  healthy  seed,  — 
And  all  om-  choice  is  this,  —  to  grow 
Pasture  and  grain  or  noisome  weed. 


Then  in  content  possess  your  hearts, 
Unenvious  of  each  other's  lot, — 
For  those  which  seem  the  easiest  parts 
Have  travail  which  ye  reckon  not: 
And  he  is  bravest,  happiest,  best, 
Who,  from  the  task  within  his  span 
Earns  for  himself  his  evening  rest, 
^^And  an  increase  of  good  for  man. 


/  WANDERED  BY  THE  BROOk- 

SIDE. 

I  WANDERED  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill,  — 

I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree, 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 

And  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid ; 

For  1  listened  for  a  footfall, 

1  listened  for  a  word,  — 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  1  heard. 


He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not,  — 
The  night  came  on  alone,  — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one. 
Each  on  his  golden  throne ; 
The  evening  air  passed  by  my  cheek 
The  leaves  above  were  stirred; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  1  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing. 
When  something  stood  behind, 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 
1  knew  its  touch  was  kind : 
It  drew  me  nearer —  nearer. 
We  did  not  speak  one  word ; 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


THE    WORTH  OF  HOURS. 

Believe  not  that  your  inner  eye 
Can  ever  in  just  measure  try 
The  worth  of  hours  as  they  go  by : 

For  every  man's  weak  self,  alas! 
Makes  him  to  see  them,  while  they 

pass. 
As  through  a  dim  or  tinted  glass; 

But  if  in  earnest  care  you  would 
Mete  out  to  each  its  part  of  good. 
Trust  rather  to  your  after-mood. 

Those  surely  are  not  fairly  spent, 
That  leave  your   spirit  bowed  and 

bent 
In  sad  unrest  and  ill-content : 

And  more,  —  though  free  from  seem- 
ing harm. 
You  rest  from  toil  of  mind  or  arm, 
Or      slow     retire     from    Pleasure's 
charm,  — 

If  then  a  painful  sense  comes  on 
Of  something  wholly  lost  and  gone. 
Vainly  enjoyed,  or  vainly  done,  — 

Of    something    from    your  being's 

chain. 
Broke  off,  nor  to  be  linked  again 
By  all  mere  memory  can  retain.  — 


288 


EOUGHTON, 


Upon    your    heart  this    truth    may 

rise, — 
Nothing  that  altogether  dies 
Suffices  man's  just  destinies: 

So  should  we  live,  that  every  hour 
May  die  as  dies  tlie  natural  flower,  — 
A  self -reviving  thing  of  power; 

That  every  thought  and  every  deed 
May  hold  within  itself  the  seed 
Of  future  good  and  future  need : 

Esteeming  sorrow,  whose  employ 
Is  to  develop  not  destroy. 
Far  better  than  a  barren  joy. 


FOREVER    UNCONFESSED. 

They  seemed  to  those  who  saw  them 

meet 
The  worldly  friends  of  every  day, 
Her    smile    was    undisturbed    and 

sweet, 
His  coiutesy  was  free  and  gay. 

But  yet  if  one  the  other's  name 
In  some  unguarded  moment  heard, 
The  heart  you  thought  so  calm  and 

tame. 
Would  struggle  like  a  captured  bird : 

And  letters  of  mere  formal  phrase 
Were  blistered  with  repeated  tears, — 
And  this  was  not  the  work  of  days, 
But   had    gone    on    for   years    and 
years! 

Alas,  that  Love  was  not  too  strong 
For  maiden  shame  and  manly  pride! 
Alas,  that  they  delayed  too  long 
The  goal  of  mutual  bliss  beside. 

Yet  what   no  chance  could  then  re- 
veal, 
And  neither  would  be  first  to  own, 
Let  fate  and  courage  now  conceal. 
When    truth    could    bring    remorse 
alone. 


DIVORCED. 

We  that  were  friends,  yet  are   not 
now. 

We  that  must  daily  meet 
With    ready    words   and    courteous 
bow. 

Acquaintance  of  the  street; 
We  must  not  scorn  the  holy  past, 

We  must  remember  still 
To  honor  feelings  that  outlast 

The  reason  and  the  will. 

I  might  reprove  thy  broken  faith, 

I  might  recall  the  time 
When  thou  wert  chartered  mine  till 
death, 

Through  every  fate  and  clime; 
When  every  letter  was  a  vow, 

And  fancy  was  not  free 
To  dream  of  ended  love ;  and  thou 

Wouldst  say  the  same  of  me. 


N'o,  no,  'tis  not  for  us  to  trim 

The  balance  of  our  wrongs. 
Enough  to  leave  remorse  to  him 

To  whom  remorse  belongs ! 
Let  our  dead  friendship  be  to  us 

A  desecrated  name, 
Unutterable,  mysterious, 

A  sorrow  and  a  shame. 


A'  sorrow    that    two    souls    which 
grew 
Encased  in  mutual  bliss, 
Should    wander,    callous    strangers, 
through 
So  cold  a  world  as  this  I 
A  shame  that  we,  whose  hearts  had 
earned 
For  life  an  early  heaven, 
Should  be  like  angels  self-returned 
To  Death,  when  once  forgiven! 

Let  us  remain  as  living  signs. 

Where  they  tliat  run  may  read 
Pain  and  disgrace  in  many  lines. 

As  of  a  loss  indeed ; 
That  of  our  fellows  any  who 

The  prize  of  love  have  won 
May  tremble  at  the  thought  to  do 

The  thing  that  we  have  done! 


EOWE. 


289 


ALL   THINGS   ONCE  ARE   THINGS 
FOR  EVER. 

All  things  once  are  things  forever; 
Soul,  once  living,  lives  for  ever; 
Blame  not  what  is  only  once, 
When  that  once  endures  for  ever; 
Love,  once  felt,  though  soon  forgot 
Moulds  the  heart  to  good  for  ever; 


Once  betrayed  from  childly  faith, 
Man  is  conscious  man  for  ever ; 
Once  the  void  of  life  revealed, 
It  must  deepen  on  for  ever, 
Unless  God  fill  up  the  heart 
With  himself  for  once  and  ever: 
Once  made  God  and  man  at  once, 
God  and  man  are  one  for  ever. 


Julia  Ward  Howe. 


BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the 

coming  of  the  Lord ; 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where 

the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning 

of  his  terrible  swift  sword, 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

1  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of 
a  hundred  circling  camps ; 

They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the 
evening  dews  and  damps ; 

I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by 
the  dim  and  flaring  lamps. 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

1  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  bur- 
nished rows  of  steel  : 

"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so 
with  you  my  grace  shall  deal ; 

Let  the  hero,  born  of  woman,  crush 
the  serpent  with  his  heel,  . 
Since  God  is  mar(?hing  on ! " 

H3  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that 
shall  never  call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  be- 
fore his  judgment-seat ; 

Oh !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him ! 
be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 

Oiu-  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was 
born  across  the  sea, 

With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  trans- 
figures you  and  me ; 


As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us 
die  to  make  men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on  I 


\_From  Thoughts  in  Pere  la  Chaise.'] 

IMAGINED  REPLY  OF  ELOISA    TO 
THE  POETS  QUESTIONING. 

"  What  was  I  cannot  tell  —  thou 
know' St  our  story, 

Know' St  how  we  stole  God's  treasure 
from  on  high; 

Without  heaven's  virtue  we  had  heav- 
en's glory, 

Too  justly  our  delights  were  doomed 
to  die. 

"  Intense  as  were  our  blisses,  e'en  so 
painful 

The  keen  privation  it  was  ours  to 
share ; 

All  states,  all  places  barren  proved 
and  baneful. 

Dead  stones  grew  pitiful  at  our  de- 
spair; 

"  Till,  to  the  cloister's  solitude  re- 
pairing. 

Our  feet  the  way  of  holier  sorrows 
trod. 

Hid  from  each  other,  yet  together 
sharing 

The  labor  of  the  Providence  of  God. 


290 


HOWE. 


"  Often  at  midnight,  on  the  cold  stone 

lying, 

My  passionate  sobs  have  rent  the  pas- 
sive air, 

While  my  crisped  fingers  clutched  the 
pavement,  trying 

To  hold  him  fast,  as  he  had  still  been 
there. 

**  I  called,  I  shrieked,  till  my  spent 

breath  came  faintly, 
I  sank,  in  pain  Christ's  martyrs  could 

not  bear; 
Then  dreamed  I  saw  him,  beautiful 

and  saintly. 
As  his  far  convent  tolled  the  hour  of 

prayer. 

*'  Solemn  and  deep  that  vision  of  re- 
union — 

He  passed  in  robe,  and  cowl,  and  san- 
dall'd  feet. 

But  our  dissever'd  lips  held  no  com- 
munion. 

Our  long  divorced  glances  could  not 
meet. 

**  Then  slowly,  from  that  hunger  of 
sensation. 

That  rage  for  happiness,  which  makes 
it  sin, 

I  rose  to  calmer,  wider  contemplation, 

And  knew  the  Holiest,  and  his  disci- 
pline. 

"O  thou  who  call' St  on  me!  if  that 
thou  bearest 

A  wounded  heart  beneath  thy  wom- 
an's vest. 

If  thou  my  mournful  earthly  fortune 
sharest, 

Share  the  high  hopes  that  calmed  my 
fever' d  breast. 

*'  Not  vainly  do  I  boast  Keligion's 
power. 

Faith  dawned  upon  the  eyes  with  Sor- 
row dim ; 

I  toiled  and  trusted,  till  there  came 
an  hour 

That  saw  me  sleep  in  God,  and  wake 
with  him. 


"  Seek  comfort  thus,  for  all  life's 
painful  losing, 

Compel  from  Sorrow  merit  and  re- 
ward, 

And  sometimes  wile  a  mournful  hour 
in  musing 

How  Eloisa  loved  her  Abelard." 

The  voice  fled  heav'nward  ere  its 
spell  was  broken,  — 

I  stretched  a  tremulous  hand  within 
the  grate, 

And  bore  away  a  ravished  rose,  in 
token 

Of  woman's  highest  love  and  hard- 
est fate. 


STANZAS   FROM    THE  "  TRIBUTE 
TO  A  SERVA2,'T:' 

Oh!    grief  that  wring' st  mine  eyes 

with  tears. 
Demand  not  from  my  lips  a  song; 
That  fated  gift  of  early  years 
I've  loved  too  well,  I've  nursed  too 

long. 

What  boot  my  verses  to  the  heart 
That  breath  of  mine  no  more  shall 

stir? 
Where  were  the  piety  of  Art, 
If  thou  wert  silent  over  her  ? 

This  was  a  maiden,  light  of  foot. 
Whose  bloom  and  laughter,  fresh  and 

free. 
Flitted  like  sunshine,  in  and  out 
Among  nfy  little  ones  and  me. 

Hers  was  the  power  to  quell    and 

charm; 
The  ready  wit  that  children  love; 
The    faithful   breast,   the   shielding 

arm 
Pillowed  in  sleep  my  tenderest  dove. 

She  played  in  all  the  nursery  plays, 
She  ruled  in  all  its  little  strife; 
A  thousand  genial  ways  endeared 
Her  presence  to  my  daily  life. 


HOWE. 


291 


She  ranged  ray  hair  with   gem  or 

flower, 
Careful,  the  festal  draperies  hung, 
Or  plied  her  needle,  hour  by  hour 
In  cadence  with  the  song  I  sung. 

My  highest  joy  she  could  not  share, 
Nor  fathom  sorrow's  deep  abyss; 
For  that,  she  wore  a  smiling  air. 
She  hung  her  head  and  pined  for  this. 

"  And  she  shall  live  with  me,"  I  said, 
''  Till  all  my  pretty  ones  be  grown; 
I'll  give  my  girls  my  little  maid, 
The  gayest  thing  I  call  my  own." 

Or  else,  methought,  some  farmer  bold 

Should  woo  and  win  my  gentle  Liz- 
zie, 

And  I  should  stock  her  house  four- 
fold, 

Be  with  her  wedding  blithely  busy. 

But  lol  Consumption's  spectral  form 
Sucks  from  her  lips  the  flickering 

breath ; 
In  these  pale  flowers,  these  tear-drops 

warm, 
I  bring  the  mournful  dower  of  Death. 

I  could  but  say,  with  faltering  voice 
And  eyes  that  glanced  aside  to  weep, 
*'  Be  strong  in  faith  and  hope,  my 

child ; 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

*'  And  though  thou  walk  the  shadowy 

vale. 
Whose  end  we  know  not.  He  will  aid ; 
His  rod  and  staff  shall  stay  thy  steps ; " 
*'  I  know  it  well,"  she  smiled  and  said. 

She  knew  it  well,  and  knew  yet  more 
My  deepest  hope,  though  unexprest, 
The  hope  that  God's  appointed  sleep 
But  heightens  ravishment  with  rest. 

My  children,  living  flowers,  shall  come 
And  strew  with  seed  this  grave  of 

thine, 
And  bid   the  blushing  growths   of 

spring 
Thy  dreary  painted  cross  entwine. 


Thus  Faith,  cast  out  of  barren  creeds, 
Shall  rest  in  emblems  of  her  own ; 
Beauty,  still  springing  from  Decay, 
The  cross- wood  budding  to  the  crown. 


THE  DEAD   CHRIST. 

Take  the  dead  Christ  to  my  chamber, 

The  Christ  I  brought  from  Kome; 
Over  all  the  tossing  ocean. 

He  has  reached  his  western  home ; 
Bear  him  as  in  procession. 

And  lay  him  solemnly 
Where,    through    weary   night    and 
morning, 

He  shall  bjear  me  company. 

The  name  I  bear  is  other 

Than  than  that  I  bore  by  birth, 
And  I've  given  life  to  children 

Who'll  grow  and  dwell  on  earth; 
But  the  tmie  comes  swiftly  towards 
me 

(Nor  do  I  bid  it  stay), 
When  the  dead  Christ  will  be  more 
to  me 

Than  all  I  hold  to-day. 

Lay  the  dead  Christ  beside  me, 

Oh,  press  him  on  my  heart, 
I  would  hold  him  long  and  painfully 

Till  the  weaiy  tears  should  start ; 
Till  the  divine  contagion 

Heal  me  of  self  and  sin, 
And  the  cold  weight  press  wholly 
down 

The  pulse  that,  chokes  within. 

Reproof  and  frost,  they  fret  me. 

Towards  the  free,  the  sunny  lands, 
From  the  chaos  of  existence 

I  stretch  these  feeble  hands ; 
And,  penitential,  kneeling, 

Pray  God  would  noc  be  wroth. 
Who  gave  not  the  strength  of  feeling, 

And  strength  of  labor  both. 

Thou'rt  but  a  wooden  carving. 
Defaced  of  worms,  and  old ; 

Yet  more  to  me  thou  couldst  not  be 
Wert  thou  all  wrapt  in  gold  • 


292 


EOWELLS. 


Like  the  gem-bedizened  baby 
Which,  at  the  Twelfth-day  noon, 

They  show  from  the  Ara  Coeli's  steps, 
To  a  merry  dancing-tmie. 

I  ask  of  thee  no  w  onders, 
No  changing  white  or  red; 


I  dream  not  thou  art  living, 
I  love  and  prize  thee  dead. 

That  salutary  deadness 

I  seek,  through  want  and  pain, 

From  which  God's  own  high  power 
can  bid 
Our  virtue  rise  again. 


William  Deane  Howells. 


THE  MYSTERIES. 

Once  on  my  mother's  breast,  a  child, 
I  crept, 
Holding  my  breath ; 
There,  safe  and  sad,  lay  shuddering, 
and  wept 
At  the  dark  mystery  of  Death. 

Weary  and  weak,  and  worn  with  all 
unrest, 
Spent  with  the  strife.  — 
O  mother,    let  me  weep  upon  thy 
breast 
At  the  sad  mystery  of  Life  I 


THANKSGIVING. 

Lord,  for  the  erring  thought 
Not  into  evil  wrought  : 
Lord,  for  the  wicked  will 
Betrayed  and  baffled  still : 
For  the  heart  from  itself  kept, 
Our  thanksgiving  accept. 

For  ignorant  hopes  that  were 
Broken  to  our  blind  prayer: 
For  pain,  death,  sorrow,  sent 
Unto  our  chastisement : 
For  all  loss  of  seeming  good. 
Quicken  our  gratitude. 


CONVENTION. 

He  falters  on  the  threshold. 
She  lingers  on  the  stair; 

Can  it  be  that  Mas  his  footstep  ? 
Can  it  be  that  she  is  there  ? 


Without  is  tender  yearning, 
And  tender  love  is  within ; 

They  can  hear  each  other's  heart- 
beats. 
But  a  wooden  door  is  between. 


THE  POET'S  FRIENDS. 

The  robin  sings  in  the  elm; 

The  cattle  stand  beneath 
Sedate  and  grave  with  great  brown 
eyes 

And  f raarrant  meadow-breath. 


They  listen  to  the  flattered  bird, 
The  wise-looking,  stupid  things ; 

And  they  never  understand  a  word 
Of  all  the  robin  sings. 


THE  MULBERRIES. 

On  the  Rialto  Bridge  we  stand ; 
The  street  ebbs  under  and  makes 
no  sound ; 
But,  with  bargains  shrieked  on  every 
hand. 
The  noisy  market  rings  around. 

"  Mulberries,  fine  mulberries,  here!  " 
A  tuneful  voice,  —  and  light,  light 
measure ; 
Though  I  hardly  should  count  these 
mulberries  dear. 
If  I  paid  three  times  the  price  for 
my  pleasm-e. 


HOWELLS. 


1293 


Brown  hands  splashed  with  mulberry 
blood, 
The  basket  wreathed  with  mulber- 
ry leaves 
Hiding  the  berries  beneath  them ;  — 
good ! 
Let  us  take  whatever  the  young 
rogue  gives. 

For  you  know,  old  friend,  I  haven  't 
eaten 
A  mulberry  since  the  ignorant  joy 
Of  anything  sweet  in  the  mouth  could 
sweeten 
All  this  bitter  world  for  a  boy. 

O,  I  mind  the  tree  in  the  meadow 
stood 
By  the  road  near  the  hill:  where  I 
climbed  aloof 
On  its  branches,  this  side  of  the  gir- 
dled wood, 
I  could  see  the  top  of  our  cabin 
roof. 

And,  looking  westward,  could  sweep 
the  shores 
Of  the  river  where  we  used  to  swim. 
Under  the  ghostly  sycamores. 
Haunting  the  waters  smooth  and 
dim; 

And  eastward  athwart  the  pasture- 
lot 
And    over   the    milk-white  buck- 
wheat field 
I  could  see  the  stately  elm,  where  I 
shot 
The    first    black    squirrel    I    ever 
killed. 

And  southward  over  the  bottom-land 
I  could  see  the  mellow  breadth  of 
farm 
From  the   river-shores  to  the  hills 
expand. 
Clasped    in    the    curving    river's 
arm. 

In    the    fields  we  set  our  guileless 
snares 
For  rabbits  and  pigeons  and  wary 
quails, 


Content  with  vaguest  feathers  and 
hairs 
From  doubtful  wings  and  vanished 
tails. 

And  in  the  blue  summer  afternoon 

We  used  to  sit  in  the  mulberry-tree ; 
The  breaths  of  wind  that  remem- 
bered June 
Shook    the    leaves  and  glittering 
berries  free; 

And  while  we  watched  the  wagons  go 
Across  the  river,  along  the  road, 

To  the  mill  above,  or  the  mill  below, 
With  horses  that  stooped  to  the 
heavy  load, 

We  told  old  stories  and  made  new 
plans, 
And  felt  our  hearts  gladden  within 
us  again. 
For  we  did  not  dream  that  this  life  of 
a  man's 
Could  ever  be  what  we  know  as 
men. 

We  sat  so  srill  that  the  woodpeckers 
came 
And  pillaged  the  berries  overhead; 
From  his  log  the  chipmonk,  waxen 
tame. 
Peered  and  listened  to  what  we 
said. 

One  of  us  long  ago  was  carried 
To  his  grave  on  the  hill  above  the 
tree; 

One  is  a  farmer  there,  and  married ; 
One  has  wandered  over  the  sea.  * 

And,  if  you  ask  me,  I  hardly  know 
Whother  I'd   be  the  dead  or  the 
clown,  — 
The  clod  above  or  the  clay  below.  — 
Or  this    listless    dust    by  fortune 
blown 

To  alien  lands.     For,  however  it  is, 
So  little  we  keep  with  us  in  life ; 

At  best  we  win  only  victories, 
Not  peace,  not  peace,  O  friend,  in 
this  strife. 


294 


EOWITT, 


But  if  I  could  turn  from  the  long  de- 
feat 
Of  the  little  successes  once  more, 
and  be 
A  boy,  with  the  whole  wide  world 
at  my  feet 
Under  the  shade  of  the  mulberry 
tree, — 

From  the  shame  of  the  squandered 
chances,  the  sleep 
Of    the    will    that    cannot    itself 
awaken. 
From  the    promise  the  future  can 
never  keep, 
From  the  fitful  purposes  vague  and 
shaken,  — 

Then,  while  the  grasshopper  sung  out 
shrill 
In  the  grass  beneath  the  blanching 
thistle, 
And  the  afternoon  air,  with  a  tender 
thrill. 
Harked  to  the  quail's  complaining 
whistle,  — 


Ah  me !  should  I  paint  the  morrows 
again 
In  quite  the  colors  so   faint    to- 
day, 
And    with  the  imperial  mulberry's 
stain 
Re-purple  life's  doublet  of  hodden- 
gray  ? 

Know  again  the  losses    of   disillu- 
sion ? 
For  the  sake  of  the  hope,  have  the 
old  deceit  ?  — 
In  spite  of  the  question's  bitter  in- 
fusion. 
Don't  you  find    these  mulberries 
over-sweet  ? 

All    our  atoms    are    changed,   they 
say; 
And  the  taste  is  so  different  since 
then : 
We  live,  but  a   world   has   passed 
away, 
With  the  years  that  perished  to 
make  us  men. 


Mary  Howitt. 


THE  BROOM-FLOWER. 

Oh,  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom! 

The  ancient  poet  sung  it. 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 

To  lie  at  rest  among  it. 

1 1610W  the  realms  where  people  say 
The  flowers  have  not  their  fellow ; 

I  knoAV  where  they  shine  out  like 
suns, 
The  crimson  and  the  yellow. 

I  know  where  ladies  live  enchained 

In  luxury's  silken  fetters, 
And  flowers  as  bright  as  glittering 
gems 

Are  used  for  written  letters. 

But  ne'er  was  flower  so  fair  as  this. 
In  modern  days  or  olden ; 


It  groweth  on  its  nodding  stem 
Like  to  a  garland  golden. 

And  all  about  my  mother's  door 
Shine  out  its  glittering  bushes. 

And  down  the  glen,  where  clear  as 
light 
The  mountain-water  gushes. 

Take   all    the    rest;    but    give    me 
this. 

And  the  bird  that  nestles  in  it; 
I  love  it,  for  it  loves  the  broom — " 

The  green  and  yellow  linnet. 

Well,  call  the  rose  the  queen  of  flow- 
ers, 

And  boast  of  that  of  Sharon, 
Of  lilies  like  to  marble  cups. 

And  the  golden  rod  of  Aaron; 


no  WITT. 


295 


I  care  not  how  these  flowers  may  be 
Beloved  of  man  and  woman ; 

The  broom  it  is  the  flower  for  me, 
That  groweth  on  the  common. 

Oh,  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom ! 

The  ancient  poet  sung  it, 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 

To  lie  and  rest  among  iU 


TIBBIE  INGLIS. 

Bjnnie  Tibbie  Inglis! 

Through  sun  and  stormy  weather. 
She  kept  upon  the  broomy  hills 

Her  father's  flock  together. 

Sixteen  summers  had  she  seen,  — 
A  rosebud  just  unsealing; 

Without  sorrow,  without  fear, 
In  her  mountain  shealing. 

She  was  made  for  happy  thoughts, 
For  playful  wit  and  laughter; 

Singing  on  the  hills  alone, 
With  echo  singing  after. 

She  had  hair  as  deeply  black 

As  the  cloud  of  thunder; 
She  had  brows  so  beautiful, 

And  dark  eyes  flashing  under. 

Bright  and  witty  shepherd  girl, 
Beside  a  mountain  water, 

I  found  her,  whom  a  king  himself 
Would  proudly  call  his  daughter. 

She  was  sitting  'mong  the  crags. 
Wild  and  mossed  and  hoary, 

Reading  in  an  ancient  book 
Some  old  martyr  story. 

Tears  were  starting  to  her  eyes, 
Solemn  thought  w^as  o'er  her; 

When  she  saw  in  that  lone  place 
A  stranger  stand  before  her. 

Crimson  was  her  sunny  cheek, 
And  her  lips  seemed  moving 

With  the  beatings  of  her  heart;  — 
How  could  I  help  loving '? 


On  a  crag  I  sat  me  do\vn. 

Upon  the  mountain  hoary, 
And  made  her  read  again  to  me 

That  old  pathetic  story. 

Then  she  sang  me  mountain  songs, 

Till  the  air  was  ringing 
With  her  clear  and  warbling  voice, 

Like  a  skylark  singing. 

And  when  eve  came  on  at  length, 
Among  the  blooming  heather, 

We  herded  on  the  mountain-side 
Her  father's  flock  together. 

And  near  unto  her  father's  house 
I  said  "  Good  night! "  with  sorrow, 

And  inly  wished  that  I  might  say, 
"  We'll  meet  again  to-morrow." 

I  watched  her  tripping  to  her  home  ; 

I  saw  her  meet  her  mother; 
"  Among  a  thousand  maids,"  I  cried, 

"  There  is  not  such  another! " 

I  wandered  to  my  scholar's  home. 
It  lonesome  looked  and  dreai-y; 

I  took  my  books,  but  could  not  read, 
Methought  that  I  was  weary. 

I  laid  me  down  upon  my  bed. 
My  heart  with  sadness  laden ; 

I  dreamed  but  of  the  mountain  world, 
And  of  the  mountain  maiden. 

I  saw  her  of  the  ancient  book 
The  pages  turning  slowly; 

I  saw  her  lovely  crimson  cheek 
And  dark  eyes  drooping  lowly. 

The  dream  was  like  the  day's  delight, 
A  life  of  pain's  o'erpayment: 

I  rose,  and  with  unwonted  care. 
Put  on  my  Sabbath  raiment. 

To  none  I  told  my  secret  thoughts. 

Not  even  to  my  mother, 
Nor  to  the  friend  who,  from  my  youth. 

Was  dear  as  is  a  brother. 

I  got  me  to  the  hills  again ; 

The  little  flock  was  feeding: 
And  there  young  Tibbie  Inglis  sat. 

But  not  the  old  book  reading. 


296 


EOWITT—HOYT. 


She  sat  as  if  absorbing  thought 
With  heavy  spells  had  bound  her, 

As  silent  as  the  mossy  crags 
Upon  the  mountains  roimd  her.    " 

I  thought  not  of  my  Sabbath  dress ; 

I  thought  not  of  my  learning: 
i  thought  but  of  the  gentle  maid 

Who,  I  believed,  was  mourning. 

Bonnie  Tibbie  Inglis ! 

How  her  beauty  brightened 
Looking  at  me,  half-abashed, 

With  eyes  that  flamed  and  light- 
ened! 

There  was  no  sorrow,  then  I  saw, 
There  was  no  thought  of  sadness : 


0  life!  what  after-joy  hast  thou 
Like  love's  first  certain  gladness  ? 

1  sat  me  down  among  the  crags, 
Upon  the  mountain  hoary ; 

But  read  not  then  the  ancient  book,— ^ 
Love  was  our  pleasant  story. 

And  then  she  sang  me  songs  again. 

Old  songs  of  love  and  sorrow ; 
For  our  sufficient  happiness 

Great  charms  from  woe  could  bor- 


And  many  hours  we  talked  in  joy. 
Yet  too  much  blessed  for  laughter: 

I  was  a  happy  man  that  day. 
And  happy  ever  after ! 


William   Howitt. 


DEPARTURE    OF   THE   SWALLOW. 


And  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 

Who  beheld  it  ? 

W^hich  way  sailed  it  ? 
Farewell  bade  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go :  — 
But  who  doth  hear 
Its  summer  cheer 

As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro  ? 


So  the  freed  spirit  flies ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steals  away 
Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

Whither  ?  wherefore  doth  it  go  ? 

'Tis  all  unknown; 

We  feel  alone 
What  a  void  is  left  below. 


Ralph   Hoyt. 


OLD. 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone. 
Sat  a   hoary  pilgrim    sadly   mus- 
ing; 
Oft    I    marked    him    sitting    there 
alone, 
All  the  landscape  like  a  page  perus- 
ing; 
Poor,  unknown  — 
By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone. 


Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad- 
rimmed  hat; 
Coat  as  ancient  as  the  form  'twas 
folding; 
Silver    buttons,    queue,   and  crimpt 
cravat ; 
Oaken  staff,  his  feeble  hand  up- 
holding— 
There  he  sat ! 
Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad- 
rimmed  hat. 


EOYT. 


297 


Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there, 
No  one  sympathizing,  no  one  heed- 
ing— 
None  to  love  him  for  his  thin  gray 
hair, 
And    the   furrows    all    so  mutely 
pleading 
Age  and  care  — 
Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there. 

It   was   summer,  and    we  went   to 
school  — 
Dapper   country   lads,    and    little 
maidens ; 
Taught  the  motto  of  the  "Dunce's 
stool," 
Its    grave    import  still  my  fancy 
ladens  — 

"Here's  a  fool  I" 
It   was    summer,  and  we  went    to 
school. 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark 
our  play, 
Some  of  us  were  joyous,  some  sad- 
hearted  ; 
I  remember  well —  too  well  that  day ! 
Oftentimes     the    tears    unbidden 
started. 
Would  not  stay, 
When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark 
our  play. 

One    sweet    spirit    broke  the  silent 
spell  — 
Ah,  to  me  her  name  was  always 
heaven ! 
She  besought  him  all  his  grief  to  tell, 
(I   was    then    thirteen,    and    she 
eleven,)  — 
Isabel  I 
One  sweet   spirit   broke    the  silent 
spell. 

"  Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "  I  am  old  — 
Earthly  hope    no    longer    hath  a 
morrow; 
Yet  why  I  sit  here  thou  shalt  be 

told," 
Then  his  eye  betrayed  a  pearl  of  sor- 
row; 
Down  it  rolled. 
"Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  *' I  am  old! 


"I  have  tottered  here  to  look  once 
more 
On  the  pleasant  scene  where  I  de- 
lighted 
In  the  careless  happy  days  of  yore. 
Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was 
blighted 

To  the  core  — 
I  have  tottered  here  to  look  once 
more! 

"All  the  picture  now  to  me  how 
dear! 
E'en  this  gray  old  rock  where  I  am 
seated 
Is  a  jewel  worth  my  journey  here ; 
Ah,    that  such  a  scene  must  be 
completed 
With  a  tear! 
All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear ! 

"Old  stone  school-house! — it  is  still 
the  same ! 
There's    the    very    step  I    so    oft 
mounted ; 
There's  the  window  creaking  in  its 
frame. 
And  the  notches  that  I  cut  and 
counted 
For  the  game; 
Old  stone  school-house!  —  it  is  still 
the  same ! 


"  In  the  cottage  yonder,  I  was  born ; 
Long  my  happy  home  —  that  hum- 
ble dwelling; 
There  the  fields  of  clover,  wheat,  and 
com  — 
There  the  spring,  with  limpid  nec- 
tar swelling ; 
Ah,  forlorn! 
In  the  cottage  yonder,  I  was  bom. 

"  Those  two  gateway  sycamores  you 
see 
Then    were    planted    just    so    far 
as  under 
That  long  well-pole  from  the  path  to 
free. 
And  the  wagon  to  pass  safely  under ; 
Ninety-three ! 
Those  two   gateway  sycamores  you 


298 


HOYT, 


"  There's  the  orchard  where  we  used 
to  climb 
When  my  mates  and  I  were  boys 
together  — 
Thinking    nothing  of  the  flight  of 
time, 
Fearing  naught  but  work  and  rainy 
weather ; 
Past  its  prime ! 
There's  tlie  orchard  where  we  used  to 
climb ! 


*'  There    the    rude,    three-cornered 
chestnut  rails, 
Round  the  pasture  where  the  flocks 
were  grazing, 
Where,  so  sly,  1  used  to  watch  for 
quails 
In  the  crops  of  buckwheat  we  were 
raising  — 

Traps  and  trails; 
There  the  rude,  three-cornered  chest- 
nut rails. 

"  There's  the  mill  that  ground  our  yel- 
low grain  — 
Pond,  and  river,  still  serenely  flow- 
ing; 
Cot,   there  nestling    in  the    shaded 
lane 
Where  the  lily  of  my  heart  was 
blowing  — 
Mary  Jane! 
There's  the  mill  that  ground  our  yel- 
low grain ! 

"  There's  the  gate  on  which  I  used  to 
swing  — 
Brook,  and  bridge,  and  barn,  and 
old  red  stable ; 
But  alas!  no  more  the  mom  shall 
bring 
That  dear  group  aroimd  my  father's 
table  — 
Taken  wing! 
There's  the  gate  on  which  I  used  to 
swing! 

"I  am  fleeing — all    I   loved    have 
fled. 
Yon  green  meadow  was  our  place 
for  playing; 


That  old  tree  can  tell  of  sweet  things 
said 
When  around  it  Jane  and  I  were 
straying  — 
She  is  dead ! 
I  am  fleeing  —  all  I  loved  have  fled. 

"  Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky, 
Tracing    silently    hfe's    changeful 
story, 
So  familiar  to  my  dim  old  eye. 
Points  me  to  seven  that  are  now  in 
glory 

There  on  high  — 
Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky ! 

"  Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we 
trod, 
Guided  thither  by  an  angel  mother ; 
Now  she  sleeps  beneath  its  sacred  sod ; 
Sire    and    sisters,    and    my    liLtle 
brother 
Gone  to  God ! 
Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we 
trod. 

"  There  I  heard  of  wisdom's  pleasant 
ways  — 
Bless  the  holy  lesson!  —  but,  ah! 
never 
Shall  I   hear  again  those  songs  of 
praise, 
Those  sweet    voices  —  silent    now 
forever ! 
Peaceful  days ! 
There  I  heard  of  wisdom's  pleasant 
ways. 

"  There  my  Mary  blessed  me  with  her 
hand 
When  our  souls  drank  in  the  nup- 
tial blessing. 
Ere  she  hastened  to  the  spirit-land  — 
Yonder    turf    her    gentle    bosom 
pressing ; 
Broken  band ! 
There  my  Mary  blessed  me  with  her 
hand. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once 
more, 
And  the  sacred  place  where  we  de 
lighted, 


HUNT, 


299 


Where  we  worshipped,  in  the  days  of 
yore, 
Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was 
blighted 
To  the  core ; 
I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once 
more. 

*'  Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "  I  am  old  — 
Earthly  hope  no   longer   hath    a 

morrow ; 
Now  why  I  sit  here  thou  hast  been 

told," 


In  his  eye  another  pearl  of  sorrow ; 
Down  it  rolled  I 
"Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "I  am  old! 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone, 
Sat  the  hoary  pilgrim  sadly  mus- 
ing; 
Still    I    marked    him    sitting    there 
alone. 
All    the    landscape    like    a    page 
perusing  — 

Poor,  unknown. 
By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone. 


Leigh  Hunt. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  in- 
crease !) 

Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream 
of  peace, 

And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in 
his  room. 

Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in 
bloom. 

An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold : 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Ad- 
hem bold. 

And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he 
said, 

"What  writest  thou?"  The  vision 
raised  its  head. 

And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet 
accord. 

Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who 
love  the  Lord." 

"And,  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou. 
"  Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  angel.  Abou  spoke  more 
low, 

But  cheerly  still;  and  said,  "I  pray 
thee,  then, 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow- 
men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.    The 

next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening 

light, 


And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of 

God  had  blessed,  — 
And,  lo!  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all 

the  rest ! 


STANZAS  FROM  SONG   OF  THE 
FLOWERS. 

We  are  the  sweet  flowers. 
Bom  of  sunny  showers, 
(Think,  whene'er  you  see  us  what  our 
beauty  saith;) 
Utterance,  mute  and  bright. 
Of  some  unknown  delight, 
We  fill  the  air  with  pleasure  by  our 
simple  breath : 
All  who  see  us  love  us  — 
We  befit  all  places. 
Unto  sorrow  we  give  smiles  —  and 
unto  graces,  graces. 

Mark  our  ways,  how  noiseless 
All,  and  sweetly  voiceless. 
Though  the  March  winds  pipe  to  make 
our  passage  clear; 
Not  a  whisper  tells 
Where  our  small  seed  dwells 
Nor  is  known  the  moment  green  when 
our  tips  appear. 
We  thread  the  earth  in  silence 
In  silence  build  our  bowers  — 
And  leaf  by  leaf  in  silence  show,  till 
we  laugh  a-top,  sweet  flo\\ersI 


300 


HUNT. 


See  (and  scorn  all  duller 
Taste)  how  Heaven  loves  color; 
How  great  Nature,  clearly,  joys  in  red 
and  green ; 
What  sweet  thoughts  she  thinks 
Of  violets  and  pinks, 
And  a  thousand  flushing  hues  made 
solely  to  be  seen : 
See  her  whitest  lilies 
Chill  the  silver  showers, 
And  what  a  red  mouth  is  her  rose, 
the  woman  of  the  flowers. 

Uselessness  divinest, 
Of  a  use  the  finest, 
Painteth  us,  the  teacliers  of  the  end 
of  use; 
Travellers,  weary-eyed, 
Bless  us,  far  and  wide; 
Unto  sick  and  prisoned  thoughts  we 
give  sudden  truce : 
Not  a  poor  town  window 
Loves  its  sickliest  planting, 
But  its  wall  speaks  loftier  truth  than 
Babylonian  vaunting. 

Sagest  yet  the  uses 
Mixed  with  our  sweet  juices, 
Wliether  man  or  May-fly  profit  of  the 
balm ; 
As  fair  fingers  healed 
Knights  from  tlie  olden  field, 
We  hold  cups  of  mightiest  force  to 
give  t\^e  wildest  calm. 
Even  the  terror,  poison. 
Hath  its  plea  for  blooming; 
Life  it  gives  to  reverent  lips,  though 
death  to  the  presuming. 


Think  of  all  these  treasures, 
Matchless  works  and  pleasures 
Every    one   a    marvel,     more    than 
thought  can  say ; 
Then  think  in  what  bright  show- 
ers 
We  thicken  fields  and  bowers, 
And  with  what  heaps  of  sweetness 
half  stifle  wanton  May : 
Think  of  the  mossy  forests 
By  the  bee-birds  haunted, 
-Ind  all  those  Amazonian  plains  lone 
lying  as  enchanted. 


Trees  themselves  are  ours : 
Fruits  are  born  of  flowers ; 
Peach  and  roughest  nut  were  blos- 
soms in  the  spring; 
The  lusty  bee  knows  well 
The  news,  and  comes  pell-mell, 
And  dances  in  the  gloomy  thicks  with 
darksome  antlieming; 
Beneath  the  very  burden 
Of  planet-pressing  ocean, 
We  wash  our  smiling  cheeks  in  peace 
— a  thought  for  meek  devotion. 


Who  shall  say  that  flowers 
Dress  not  heaven's  own  bowers  ? 
Who  its  love,  without  us,  can  fancy — 
or  sweet  floor  ? 
Who  shall  even  dare 
To  say  we  sprang  not  there  — 
And  came  not  down,  that  Love  might 
bring  one  piece  of  heaven  the 
more  ? 
Oh !  pray  believe  that  angels 
From  those  blue  dominions 
Brought  us  in  their  white  laps  down, 
'twixt  their  golden  pinions. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER   AND 
CRICKET. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny 
grass, 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of 
June,  — 

Sole  voice  that's  heard  amid  the  lazy 
noon, 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  sum- 
moning brass ; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper, 
who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles 
come  too  soon. 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  trick- 
some  tune 

Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they 
pass! 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins  that  be- 
long. 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the 
hearth. 


INGE  LOW. 


301 


lioth  have  your  sunshine  ;  both, 
though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts;  and  both  seem 
given  to  earth 

To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  nat- 
ural song,  — 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter, 
mirth. 


MA  Y  AND   THE  POETS. 

There  is  May  in  books  forever; 
May  will  part  from  Spenser  never; 
May's  in  Milton,  May's  in  Prior, 
May's  in  Chaucer,  Thomson,  Dyer; 
May's  in  all  the  Italian  books:  — 
6\\e  has  old  and  modern  nooks, 
Where  she  sleeps  with  nymphs  and 

elves, 
In  happy  places  they  call  shelves, 
And  will  rise  and  dress  your  rooms 
With  a  drapery  thick  with  blooms. 
Come,  ye  rains,  then  if  ye  will. 
May's  at  home,  and  with  me  still; 
But  come  rather,  thou,  good  weather, 
And  find  us  in  the  fields  together. 


DEATH. 

Death  is  a  road  our  dearest  friends 

have  gone ; 
Why  with  such  leaders,  fear  to  say, 

"Lead  on?" 
Its  gate  repels,   lest  it  too  soon  be 

tried, 
But  turns  in  balm  on  the  immortal 

side. 
Mothers  have  passed  it:  fathers,  chil- 
dren; men 
Whose  like  we  look  not  to  behold 

again ; 
Women  that  smiled  away  their  lov- 
ing breath ; 
Soft  is  the  travelling  on  the  road  to 

death! 
But  guilt  has  passed  it  ?  men  not  fit  to 

die? 
Oh,  hush  —  for  He  that  made  us  all 

is  by! 
Human  we're  all  —  all  men,  all  bom 

of  mothers ; 
All  om'  own  selves  in  the  worn-out 

shape  of  othere ; 
Our  used,  and  oh,  be  sure,  not  to  be 

iiZ-used  brothers  I 


Jean   Ingelo^v. 

SONGS  OF  SEVEN, 
SEVEN  TIMES  ONE.  —  EXULTATION. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover, 

There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven; 
I've  said  my  "  seven  times  "  over  and  over, 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 


I  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  wTite  a  letter; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done : 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

O  moon !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low; 
You  were  bright!  ah,  bright!  but  your  light  is  failing, - 

You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 


302  INOELOW, 


You  moon,  have  you  done  something  wrong  in  heaven 

That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 
I  hope  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  be  forgiven, 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow, 

You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold! 
O  brave  marsh  marybuds,  rich  and  yellow, 

Give  me  your  money  to  hold ! 

O  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell  ? 

0  cuckoopint,  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 

And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young  ones  in  it; 
I  will  not  steal  them  away ; 

1  am  old !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet, — 
I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

SEVEN  TIMES  TWO.  —  ROMANCE. 

You  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out  your  changes. 

How  many  soever  they  be, 
And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note  as  he  ranges 

Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 

Yet  birds'  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  by  swelling 

No  magical  sense  conveys. 
And  bells  have  forgotten  their  old  art  of  telling 

The  fortune  of  future  days. 

"  Turn  again,  turn  again,"  once  they  rang  cheerily. 

While  a  boy  listened  alone ; 
Made  his  heart  yearn  again,  musing  so  wearily 

Ali  by  himself  on  a  stone. 

Poor  bells !  I  forgive  you ;  your  good  days  are  over, 

And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be ; 
No  listening,  no  longing  shall  aught,  aught  discover 

You  leave  the  story  to  me. 

The  foxglove  shoots  out  of  the  green  matted  heather 

Preparing  her  hoods  of  snow ; 
She  was  idle,  and  slept  till  the  sunshiny  weather: 

Oh  I  children  take  long  to  grow. 

I  wish  and  I  wish  that  the  spring  would  go  faster. 

Nor  long  summer  bide  so  late ; 
And  I  could  grow  on  like  the  foxglove  and  aster, 

Yov  some  things  are  ill  to  wait. 

I  wait  for  the  day  when  dear  hearts  shall  discover, 

While  dear  hands  are  laid  on  my  head ; 
"  The  child  is  a  woman,  the  book  may  close  over, 

For  all  the  lessons  are  said." 


INGELOW,  303 


I  wait  for  my  story, —  the  birds  cannot  sing  it, 

Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree ; 
The  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years,  oh,  bring  it ! 

Such  as  I  wish  it  to  be. 


SEVEN  TIMES  THREE.  —  LOVE. 

I  leaned  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover, 
Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate ; 
"  Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  one  lover,— 
Hush,  nightingale,  hush!    O  sweet  nightingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near. 
For  my  love  he  is  late! 

"  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree. 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer: 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-clusters  grow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow. 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

"  You  night-moths  that  hover  where  honey  brims  over 

From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep ; 
You  glowworms,  shine  out,  and  the  pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 
Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste. 
For  the  time  runs  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep, — 

**  Too  deep  for  swift  telling;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 

I've  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night." 
By  the  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white  clover, 
Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashioned  took  flight ; 
But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 

SEVEN  TIMES   FOUR.  —  MATERNITY. 

Heigh-ho !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall! 
When  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in  the  grasses. 

And  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds  slender  and  small! 
Here's  two  bonny  boys,  and  here's  mother's  own  lasses, 

Eager  to  gather  them  all. 

Heigh-ho !  daisies  and  buttercups ; 

Mother  shall  thread  them  a  daisy  chain; 
Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge-sparrow. 

That  loved  her  brown  little  ones,  loved  them  full  fain; 
Sing,  "  Heart,  thou  art  wide  though  the  house  be  but  narrow," 

Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 


304  INQELOW. 


Heigh-ho !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 

Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and  they  bow; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean  waters, 

And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at  her  prow. 
O  bonny  brown  sons,  and  O  sweet  little  daughters, 

Maybe  he  thinks  of  you  now. 

Heigh-ho !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall ! 
A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and  leisure, 

And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  sorrow  and  thrall  \ 
Send  down  on  their  pleasure  smiles  passing  its  measure, 

God  that  is  over  us  all ! 


SEVEN  TIMES  FIVE.  —  WIDOWHOOD. 

I  sleep  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moan 

Before  I  am  well  awake; 
*'  Let  me  bleed !    O  let  me  alone, 

Since  I  must  not  break! " 

For  children  wake,  though  fathers  sle^ 
With  a  stone  at  foot  and  at  head: 

0  sleepless  God,  forever  keep. 
Keep  both  living  and  dead ! 

1  lift  mine  eyes,  and  what  to  see 

But  a  world  happy  and  fair! 
I  have  not  wished  it  to  mourn  with  me,— 
Comfort  is  not  there. 

Oh,  what  anear  but  golden  brooms, 

But  a  waste  of  reedy  rills ! 
Oh,  what  afar  but  the  fine  glooms 

On  the  rare  blue  hills ! 

I  shall  not  die,  but  live  forlore, — 

How  bitter  it  is  to  part ! 
Oh,  to  meet  thee,  my  love,  once  more! 

0  my  heart,  my  heart ! 

Ko  more  to  hear,  no  more  to  see ! 

Oh,  that  an  echo  might  wake 
And  waft  one  note  of  thy  psalm  to  me 

Ere  my  heart-strings  break! 

I  should  know  it  how  faint  soe'er, 

And  with  angel  voices  blent; 
Oh,  once  to  feel  thy  spirit  anear; 

1  could  be  content ! 

Or  once  between  the  gates  of  gold, 

While  an  entering  angel  trod, 
But  once, —  thee  sitting  to  behold 

On  the  hills  of  God  1 


INGJSLOW.  305 


SEVEN  TIMES  SIX.  —  GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE. 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose: 
To  see  my  bright  ones  disappear, 

Drawn  up  like  morning  dews, — 
To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose: 
This  have  I  done  when  God  drew  near 

Among  his  own  to  choose. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

And  with  thy  lord  depart 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed, 

Will  let  no  longer  smart, — 
To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

This  while  thou  didst  I  smiled, 
For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said, 

"Mother,  give  me  thy  child." 

O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind! 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears ; 
But  when  a  man  like  grace  would  find, 

My  soul  put  by  her  fears, — 
O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind ! 

God  guards  in  happier  spheres ; 
That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  bind 

Is  hope  for  unknown  years. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose, 
Thy  mother's  tenderest  words  are  said. 

Thy  face  no  more  she  views; 
Thy  mother's  lot,  my  dear. 

She  doth  in  naught  accuse ; 
Her  lot  to  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  love, —  and  then  to  lose. 


SEVEN  TIMES   SEVEN.  —  LONGING   FOR  HOME. 

A  song  of  a  boat :  — 

There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow: 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote. 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like  snow, 
And  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze  would  blow, 

And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 

I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a  boat 

Went  curtsying  over  the  billow, 
I  marked  her  course  till  a  dancing  mote. 

She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam, 

And  I  stayed  behind  in  the  dear-loved  home; 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about  the  boat, 

And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 


306  INGELOW. 


I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat 

For  it  is  but  short :  — 
My  boat  you  shall  find  none  fairer  afloat, 

In  river  or  port. 
Long  I  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore, 

On  the  open  desolate  sea, 
And  I  think  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly  shore, 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me  — 

Ah  me! 

A  song  of  a  nest :  — 

There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow : 
Down  in  the  mosses  and  knot-grass  pressed, 
Soft  and  warm  and  full  to  the  brim  — 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim, 

With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long:  — 
You  shall  never  light  in  a  summer  quest 

The  bushes  among  — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 

That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

I  had  a  nestful  once  of  my  own, 

Ah,  happy,  happy  I ! 
Right  dearly  I  loved  them ;  but  when  they  were  grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly  — 
Oh,  one  after  one  they  flew  away 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue. 
To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day. 

And  —  I  wish  I  was  going  too. 

I  pray  you  what  is  the  nest  to  me, 

My  empty  nest  ? 
And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to  see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor  yet. 
Though  my  good  man  has  sailed  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was  set, 

Now  all  its  hope  hath  failed  ? 

Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went, 

And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be : 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts  are  senl| 

The  only  home  for  me  — 

Ah  me  I 


AS    I    CAME    ROUND    THE    HARBOR     BUOV- 


Page  307 


INOELOW. 


807 


LIKE  A  LAVEROCK  IN  THE  LIFT. 

It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  it's  we  two  for  aye, 
All  the  world  and  we  two,  and  Heaven  be  our  stay. 
Like  a  laverock  in  the  lift,  sing,  O  bonny  bride! 
All  the  world  was  Adam  once,  with  Eve  by  his  side. 

What's  the  world,  my  lass,  my  love!  —  what  can  it  do  ? 
I  am  thine,  and  thou  art  mine;  life  is  sweet  and  new. 
If  the  world  have  missed  the  mark,  let  it  stand  by, 
For  we  two  have  gotten  leave,  and  once  more  we'll  try. 

Like  a  laverock  in  the  lift,  sing,  O  bonny  bride ! 
It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  happy  side  by  side. 
Take  a  kiss  from  me,  thy  man,  now  the  song  begins: 
"  All  is  made  afresh  for  us,  and  the  brave  heart  wins." 

When  the  darker  days  come,  and  no  sun  will  shine, 
Thou  shalt  dry  my  tears,  lass,  and  I'll  dry  thine. 
It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  while  the  world's  away, 
Sitting  by  the  golden  sheaves  on  our  wedding-day. 


THE  LONG   WHITE  SEAM. 


As  I  came  round  the  harbor  buoy, 

The  lights  began  to  gleam, 
No    wave    the    land-locked    water 
stirred. 

The  crags  were  white  as  cream ; 
And  I  marked  my  love  by  candle- 
light 

Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 
It's  aye  sewing  ashore,  my  dear, 

Watch  and  steer  at  sea. 
It's  reef  and  furl,  and  haul  the  line, 

Set  sail  and  think  of  thee. 

I  climbed  to  reach  her  cottage  door; 

Oh,  sweetly  my  love  sings ! 
Like  a  shaft  of  light  her  voice  breaks 
forth. 

My  soul  to  meet  it  springs, 
Ao  the  shining  water  leaped  of  old, 

When  stirred  by  angel  wings. 


Aye  longing  to  list  anew. 

Awake  and  in  my  dream. 
But  never  a  song  she  sang  like  this, 

Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 

Fair    fall    the    lights,    the    harbor 
lights. 
That  brought  me  in  to  thee. 
And  peace  drop  down  on  that  low 
roof 
For  the  sight  that  I  did  see. 
And  the  voice,  my  dear,  that  rang  so 
clear 
All  for  the  love  of  me. 
For  oh,  for  oh,  with   brows   bent 
low 
By  the  candle's  flickering  gleam. 
Her    wedding -gown     it     was     she 
wrought. 
Sewing  the  long  white  seam. 


308 


JOHNSON. 


Samuel  Johnson 

[From  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes.] 


ENVIABLE  AGE. 

But  grant,  the  virtues  of  a  temperate 
prirae, 

Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn 
or  crime ; 

An  age  that  melts  with  unperceived 
decay, 

And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away ; 

Whose  peaceful  day,  benevolence  en- 
dears, 

Whose  night  congratulating  con- 
science cheers ; 

The  general  favorite  as  the  general 
friend : 

Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish 
its  end  ? 


IFrom  VaniUj  of  Human  WisTies."] 
WISDOM'S  PRAYER. 

Where  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear 
their  objects  find  ? 

Must  dull  suspense  corrupt  the  stag- 
nant mind  ? 

Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  se- 
date, 

Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his 
fate? 

Must  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes 
rise; 

No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the 
skies  ? 

Inquirer,  cease;  petitions  yet  remain. 

Which  Heaven  may  hear,  nor  deem 
religion  vain. 

Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating 
voice, 

But  leave  to  Heaven  the  measure  and 
the  choice, 

Safe  in  His  power,  whose  eyes  discern 
afar 

The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious 
prayer; 

Implore  His  aid,  in  His  decisions  rest, 

Secure  whate'er  He  gives,  He  gives 
the  best. 


Yet,  when  the  sense  of  sacred  pres- 
ence fires. 

And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  as- 
pires. 

Pour  forth  thy  fervors  for  a  healthful 
mind, 

Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  re- 
signed : 

For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man 
can  fill; 

For  patience,  sovereign  o'er  trans- 
muted ill; 

For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier 
seat, 

Counts  death,  kind  Nature's  signal  of 
retreat : 

These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of 
Heaven  ordain, 

These  goods  He  grants,  who  grants 
the  power  to  gain ; 

With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms 
the  mind. 

And  makes  the  happiness  she  does 
not  find. 


[From  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes.] 
CHARLES   XII. 

On  what  foundation    stands    the 

warrior's  pride. 
How    just    his    hopes,   let    Swedish 

Charles  decitle : 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire. 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labors 

tire ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide 

domain, 
Unconquered  lord  of  pleasure  and  of 

pain. 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield, 
War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to 

the  field ; 
Behold  smTounding  kings  their  pow- 
ers combine. 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign ; 
Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads 

her  charms  in  vain; 
"Think  nothing  gained,"  he  cries. 

"  till  naught  remain, 


jONSO^r. 


309 


On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  stand- 
ards fly, 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar 

sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state, 
And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended, 

wait; 
Stem   Famine  guards   the   solitary 

coast 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of 

frost ; 
He  comes,  nor   want  nor  cold  his 

course  delay ; 
Hide,  blushing  glory,  hide  Pultowa's 

day! 
The    vanquished     hero    leaves    his 

broken  bands, 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant 

lands ; 
Condemned    a    needy  suppliant    to 

wait. 
While  ladies  interpose  and  slaves  de- 
bate. 
But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her 

error  mend  ? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his 

end? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give   the  fatal 

wound, 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the 

ground  ? 
His  fall  was  destined  to    a  barren 

strand, 
A    petty    fortress    and    a    dubious 

hand; 
He  left  a  name  at  which  the  world 

grew  pale. 
To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale. 


[From  London.'] 
THE  FATE  OF  POVERTY. 

By  numbers  here  from  shame  or 

censure  free. 
All  crimes  are  safe  but  hated  poverty. 
Tliis,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues. 
This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarlin?; 

muse. 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tattered  cloak 
Wakes  from  his  dream,  and  labon 

for  a  joke ; 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtien 

gaze,  [ways, 

And  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand 
Of   all    the  griefs    that    harass  the 

distressed, 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest ; 
Fate  never  wounds  more  deep  the 

generous  heart. 
Than    when    a    blockhead's    insult 

points  the  dart. 
Has  Heaven  reserved,  in  pity  to  the 

poor. 
No  pathless  waste,  or  undiscovered 

shore  ? 
No  secret  island   in  the  boundless 

main? 
No  peaceful  desert  yet  unclaimed  by 

Spain  ? 
Quick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  ex- 
plore. 
And  bear  Oppression's  insolence  no 

more. 
This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere 

confessed, 
Slow   rises  worth,  by  poverty 

depressed. 


Ben  Jonson. 


TO  CELIA. 


Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine : 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth 
rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 


I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  \\Teath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent' St  it  back  to  me; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I 
swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee  I 


310 


KEATS. 


HYMN  TO  CYNTHIA. 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 

Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light. 

Goddess,  excellently  bright  I 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose : 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close : 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess,  excellently  bright ! 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart. 
And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver: 

Give  unto  the  flying  hart 
Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever; 

Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night. 

Goddess,  excellently  bright! 


THE  SWEET  NEGLECT. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest. 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast : 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed : 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though    art's    hid    causes    are    not 

found. 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face. 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free : 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me, 


Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art, 
That  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  mj 
heart. 


EPITAPH. 

Would' ST  thou  hear  what  man  can 

say 
In  a  little  ?  —  reader,  stay ! 
Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  beauty  as  could  die, — 
Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 
To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 
If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 
Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 
One  name  was  Elizabeth, — 
The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death. 
Fitter  where  it  died  to  tell, 
Than  that  it  lived  at  all.    Farewell ! 


GOOD   LIFE,  LONG  LIFE. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hun- 
dred year. 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and 
sere: 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light. 
In  small  proportions,  we  just  beauties 

see; 
And  in  short  measures,  life  may  per- 
feet  be. 


John   Keats. 


THE   TERROR    OF  DEATH. 


When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease 
to  be 

Before  my  pen  has  gleaned  my  teem- 
ing brain. 

Before  high-piled  books,  in  charact- 
ery 

Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full- 
ripened  grain; 


When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's 
starred  face, 

Huge,  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  ro- 
mance. 

And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to 
trace 

Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand 
of  Chance; 


KEATS 


311 


And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an 

hour ! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee 

more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  fairy  power 
Of  unreflecting  love, —  then  on  the 

shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and 

think 
Till  love  and  fame  to  nothingness 

do  sink. 


SONNET  COMPOSED  ON  LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

Bright  Star!  would  I  were  steadfast 
as  thou  art, — 

Not  in  lone  splendor  hung  aloft  the 
night, 

And  watching,  with  eternal  lids 
apart, 

Like  nature's  patient  sleepless  ere- 
mite. 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike 
task 

Of  pure  ablution,  round  earth's  hu- 
man shores, 

Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the 
moors :  — 

No,  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  un- 
changeable, 

Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripen- 
ing breast, 

To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell. 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest ; 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken 
breath, 

And  so  live  ever, —  or  else  swoon  to 
death. 


ODE  ON  THE  POETS. 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune' 
Witli  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wonder- 

ous 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thunderous ; 


With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 
Underneath  large  bluebells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 
But  divine  melodious  truth; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumbered,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame; 
What    doth    strengthen    and    what 

maim :  — 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day. 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  I 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  I 


FANC] 


Ever  let  the  fancy  roam ; 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home ; 
At  a  touch  sweet  pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth; 
Then  let  winged  fancy  wander 
Tlirough  the  thought  still  spread  be- 
yond her; 
Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, — 
She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 
O  sweet  fancy !  let  her  loose ! 
Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use. 
And  the  enjoying  of  the  spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming. 
Autumn's  red-lipped  fruitage  too, 
Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 


312 


KEATS. 


Cloys  with  tasting.     What  do  then  ? 
Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 
The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 
Spirit  of  a  winter's  night; 
When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 
And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon; 
When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 
In  a  dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 
Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad. 
With  a  mind  self-overawed,         [her. 
Fancy,   high-commissioned  :  —  send 
She  has  vassals  to  attend  her; 
She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 
Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 
She  will  bring  thee,  all  together. 
All  delights  of  summer  weather; 
All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 
From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 
All  the  heaped  autumn's  wealth; 
With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth; 
She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 
Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup. 
And  thou  shalt  quaff  it, —  thou  shalt 

hear 
Distant  harvest-carols  clear, — 
Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn; 
Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn ; 
And,  in  the  same  moment, —  hark! 
'Tis  the  early  April  lark, — 
Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw. 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 
Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold ; 
White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown    primrose    that    hath 

burst ; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May ; 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 
Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep ; 
And  the  snake,  all  winter-thin. 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin ; 
Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree. 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 


[From  Endymion.'] 
BEAUTY'S  IMMORTALITY. 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever : 
Its  loveliness  increases ;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still  will 

keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and 

quiet  breathing. 
Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we 

wreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the 

earth, 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman 

dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-dark- 

ened  ways 
Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite 

of  all, 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away 

the  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.   Such  the  sun, 

the  moon. 
Trees  old  and    young,   sprouting  a 

shady  boon  [dils 

For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  datf  o- 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in ; 

and  clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert 

make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid-forest 

brake, 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  mu3k- 

rose  blooms : 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the 

dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty 

dead ; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or 

read: 
An    endless    fountain    of    immortal 

drink. 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's 

brink. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numb- 
ness pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I 
had  drunk. 


KEATS. 


313 


Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the 
drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards 
had  sunk: 
Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy 
lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happi- 
ness,— 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of 
the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  num- 
berless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated 
ease. 

Oh,  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that 
hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the    deep- 
delved  earth. 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country- 
green. 
Dance,   and  Provencal  song,  and 
sunburnt  mirth! 
Oh,  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm 
South! 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hip- 

pocrene. 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at 
the  brim. 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the 
world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the 
forest  dim ! 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite 
forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast 
never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit  and"  hear  each 
other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last 
gray  hairs. 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spec- 
tre-thin, and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of 
sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lus- 
trous eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond 
to-morrow. 


Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee. 
Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his 
pards. 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  poesy, 
Though  the  dull   brain  perplexes 
and  retards: 
Already  with   thee!    tender   is   the 
night. 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on 
her  throne,  ffays; 

Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the 
breezes  blown 
Through    verdurous    glooms    and 
winding  mossy  ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my 
feet. 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon 
the  boughs, 
But,   in  embalmed  darkness,   guess 
each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month 
endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit- 
tree  wild ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral 

eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in 
leaves; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy . 
wine. 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on 
summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen;  and  for  many  a 
time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  ease- 
ful Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a 
mused  rhyme. 
To  take   into    the    air    my  quiet 
breath ;  [die. 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with 

no  pain. 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy 
soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have 
ears  in  vain, — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


314 


KEBLE. 


Tliou  wast  not  born  for  death,  im- 
mortal bird ! 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee 
down ; 
Tlie  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night 
was  heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and 
clown : 
Perhaps    the     self-same    song    that 
found  a  path 
Through   the  sad  heart  of  Ruth, 

when  sick  for  home 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien 
corn; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening 
on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  for- 
lorn. 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 
To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my 
sole  self ! 
Adieu!    the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so 
well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving 
elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem 
fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the 

still  stream, 
Up    the    hill-side;    and    now  'tis 
buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 


Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 
Fled  is  that  music :  —  do  I  wake  or 
sleep  ? 


ON  READING  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER, 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms 
of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  king- 
doms seen; 
Round  many  western  islands  have 
I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been 
told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as 

his  demesne: 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure 
serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud 

and  bold : 
Then  felt  1  like  some  watcher  of  the 
skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his 
ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle 
eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific, —  and  all 
his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild 
surmise, — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


John  Keble. 


WHERE  IS  THY  FA  VORED  HA  UNT? 


Where  is  thy  favored  haunt,  eter- 
nal voice. 
The  region  of  thy  choice. 
Where  undisturbed  by  sin  and  earth, 
the  soul 
Owns  thy  entire  control  ? 
'Tis  on  the  mountain's  summit  dark 
and    high, 
When  storms  are  hurrying  by : 
'Tis  'mid  the  strong  foundations  of 
the  earth, 
Where  torrents  have  their  birth. 


No  sounds  of  worldly  toil  ascending 
there. 
Mar  the  full  burst  of  prayer; 
Lone  Nature  feels  that  she  may  free- 
ly breathe. 
And  round  us  and  beneath 
Are  heard  her  sacred  tones :  the  fit- 
ful sweep 
Of  winds  across  the  steep, 
Through  withered  bents  —  romantic 
note  and  clear, 
Meet  for  a  hermit's  ear,-  • 


KEBLE. 


315 


The    wheeling    kite's   wild    solitary 
cry, 
And  scarcely  heard  so  high, 
The  dashing  waters  when  the  air  is 
still. 
From  many  a  torrent  rill 
That    winds    unseen    beneath    the 
shaggy  fell. 
Tracked  by  the  blue  mist  well : 
Such  sounds  as  make  deep  silence  in 
the  heart, 
For  Thought  to  do  her  part. 

*Tis  then  we  hear  the  voice  of  God 
within, 
Pleading  with  care  and  sin ; 
**  Child  of  my  love!  how  have  I  wear- 
ied thee  ? 
Why  wilt  thou  err  from  me  ? 
Have  I  not  brought  thee  from  the 
house  of  slaves ; 
Parted  the  drowning  waves, 
And  sent  my  saints  before  thee  in 
the  way, 
Lest     thou     should' St     faint     or 
stray  ? 

'•  What  was  the  promise  made  to  thee 
alone  ? 
Art  thou  the  excepted  one  ? 
An  heir  of  glory  without  grief  or 
pain  ? 
O  vision  false  and  vain ! 
There    lies    thy    cross;    beneath    it 
meekly  bow, 
It  fits  thy  stature  now: 
Who  scornful  pass  it  with  averted 
eye, 
'Twill  crush  them  by  and  by. 


"  Raise  thy  repining  eyes,  and  take 
true  measure 
Of  thine  eternal  treasure ; 
The  father  of  thy  Lord  can  grudge 
thee  nought. 
The  world  for  thee  was  bought, 
And  as  this  landscape  broad  —  earth, 
sea,  and  sky, — 
All  centres  in  thine  eye. 
So  all   God  does  if    rightly   under- 
stood, 
Shall  work  thy  final  good." 


WHY  SHOULD    WE  FAINT  AND 
FEAR   TO  LIVE  ALONE* 

Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to 
live  alone, 
Since   all    alone,   so    heaven   has 
willed,  we  die  ? 
Not  even  the  tenderest  heart,  and 
next  our  own. 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we 
smile  and  sigh. 

Each  in  his  hidden  sphere  of  joy  or 
woe 
Our  hermit  spirits  dwell,  and  range 
apart. 
Our  eyes  see  all  around  in  gloom  or 
glow  — 
Hues  of  their  own,  fresh  borrowed 
from  the  heart. 

And  well  it  is  for  us  our  God  should 
feel 
Alone  our  secret  throbbings :  so  our 
prayer 
May  readier  spring  to  heaven,  nor 
spend  its  zeal 
On  cloud-born  idols  of  this  lower 
air. 

For  if  one  heart  in  perfect  sympathy 
Beat  with  another,  answering  love 
for  love, 
VYeak  mortals  all  entranced  on  earth 
would  lie; 
Nor  listen  for  those  purer  strains 
above. 

Or  what  if  heaven  for  once  its  search- 
ing liirht  [all 
Lent  to  some  partial  eye,  disclosing 
The  rade  bad  thoughts,  that  in  our 
bosom's  night 
Wander  at  lar<ie,  nor  heed  Love's 
gentle  thrall  ? 

Who  would  not  shun  the  dreary  un- 
couth place  ? 
As  if,  fond  leaning  where  her  in- 
fant slept, 
A  mother's  arm  a  serpent  should  em- 
brace : 
So  might  we  friendless  live,  and 
die  unwept. 


316 


KEBLE. 


Then  keep  the  softening  veil  in  mer- 
cy drawn, 
Thou  wlio  canst  love  us,  though 
thou  read  us  true. 
As  on  the  bosom  of  the  aerial  lawn 
Melts  in  dim  haze  each  coarse  un- 
gentle hue. 

So  too  may  soothing  hope  thy  leave 
enjoy 
Sweet    visions    of    long    severed 
hearts  to  frame : 
Though  abseifce  may  impair,  or  cares 
annoy, 
Some  constant  mind  may  draw  us 
still  the  same. 


SINCE  ALL  THAT  IS  NOT  HEAVEN 
MUST  FADE. 

Since  all  that  is  not  heaven  must 

fade, 
Light  be  the  hand  of  ruin  laid 

Upon  the  home  I  love: 
With  lulling  spell  let  soft  decay 
Steal  on,  and  spare  the  giant  sway, 

The  crash  of  tower  and  grove. 

Far  opening  down   some  woodland 

deep 
In  their  own  quiet  dale  should  sleep 

The  relics  dear  to  thought. 
And  wild-flower  wreaths  from  side  to 

side 
Their  waving  tracery  hang,  to  hide 
What  ruthless  time  has  wrought. 

Such    are    the    visions    green    and 

sweet 
That  o'er  the  wistful  fancy  fleet 

In  Asia's  sea-like  plain. 
Where    slowly,   round    his    isles    of 

sand, 
Euphrates  through  the  lonely  land 
Winds  toward  the  pearly  main. 

Slumber  is  there,  but  not  of  rest; 
There  her  forlorn  and  weary  nest 

The  famished  hawk  has  found. 
The  wild  doc:  howls  at  fall  of  night. 
The  serpent's  rustling  coils  affright 

The  traveller  on  his  round. 


What  shapeless  form,  half  lost  on 

high. 
Half  seen  against  the  evening  sky, 

Seems  like  a  ghost  to  glide. 
And  watch  from  Babel's  crumbling 

heap. 
Where  in  her  shadow,  fast  asleep. 
Lies  fallen  imperial  pride  ? 

With  half-closed  eye  a  lion  there 
Is  basking  in  his  noontide  lair 

Or  prowls  in  twilight  gloom. 
The  golden  city's  king  he  seems. 
Such  as  in  old  prophetic  dreams 

Sprang  from  rough  ocean's  womb. 

But  where  are  now  his  eagle  wings, 
That  sheltered  erst  a  thousand  kings, 

Hiding  the  glorious  sky 
From  half  the  nations,  till  they  own 
No  holier  name,  no  mightier  throne  ? 

That  vision  is  gone  by. 

Quenched  is  the  golden  statue's  ray. 
The  breath  of    heaven    has    blown 
away 
What  toiling  earth  had  piled. 
Scattering    wise    heart    and    crafty 

hand. 
As  breezes  strew  on  ocean's  sand. 
The  fabrics  of  a  child. 

Divided  thence  through  every  age 
Thy  rebels,  I^ord,  their  warfare  wage, 

And  hoarse  and  jarring  all 
Mount  up  their  heaven-assailing  cries 
To  thy  bright  watchman  in  the  skies 

From  Babel's  shattered  wall. 

Thrice    only    since,    with    blended 

might 
The  nations  on  that  haughty  height 

Have  met  to  scale  the  heaven : 
Thrice  only  might  a  seraph's  look 
A  moment's  shade  of  sadness  brook; 

Such  power  to  guilt  was  given. 

Now  the  fierce   Bear  and   Leopard 

keen 
Are  perished  as  they  ne'er  had  been, 

Oblivion  is  their  home: 
Ambition's  boldest  dream  and  last 
Must  melt  before  the  clarion  blast 

That  sounds  the  dirge  of  Rome. 


KEMBLE. 


317 


Heroes  and  kings,  obey  the  charm, 
Withdraw  the  proud    high-reaching 
arm ; 
There  is  an  oath  on  high, 
That  ne'er  on  brow  of  mortal  birth 
Shall    blend    again    the    crowns    of 
eartli, 
Nor  in  according  cry 

Her  many  voices  mingling  own 
One  tyrant  lord,  one  idol  throne: 
But  to  His  triumph  soon 


He  shall  descend  who  rules  above, 

And  the  pure  language  of  his  love 

All  tongues  of  men  shall  tune. 

Nor  let  ambition  heartless  mourn; 
When  Babel's  very  ruins  burn, 

Her  high  desires  may  breathe;  — 
O'ercome  thyself,  and  thou  may'st 

share 
With  Christ  his  Father's  throne,  and 
wear 
The  world's  imperial  wreath. 


Frances  Anne  Kemble. 

ABSENCE. 


What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days 
and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy 
face? 
How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that 
lowers 
Between  this  time  and  that  sweet 
time  of  grace  ? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary 
sense  — 
Weary  with  longing  ?    Shall  I  flee 
away 
Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond 
pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present 
day? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the 

sin 

Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift 

of  time  ?  [within. 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked 

Leave  and  forget  life's  purposes 

sublime  ? 

Oh,  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I 
contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee 
back  more  near  ? 
How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hopes 
to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou 
art  here  ?  I 


I'll  tell  thee;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay 
hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to 
thee. 
In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that 
is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one!  art  far 
from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts 
to  try 
All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and 
holy  strains ; 
For  thy  clear  sake  I  will  walk  pa- 
tiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call 
their  minutes  pains. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence 
make 
A  noble  task-time ;  and  will  therein 
strive 
To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 
More  good  than  I  have  won  since 
yet  I  live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in 
me 
A  thousand    graces,   which    shall 
thus  be  thine ; 
So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed 
be. 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence 
divine. 


318 


KEY, 


FAITH. 


Betteb  trust  all  and  be  deceived, 
And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiv- 
ing, 
Than  doubt  one  heart,  that  if  believed 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  be- 
lieving. 


Oh,  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 
The  doubting   fiend     o'ertakes    oui 

youth : 
Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 
Than    lose    the    blessed    hope    of 

truth. 


Francis  Scott  Key. 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 


Oh!  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's 

early  light 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the 

twilight's  last  gleaming, — 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  briglit  stars 

through  the  perilous  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were 

so  gallantly  streaming ! 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs 

bursting  in  air 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that 

our  flag  was  still  there; 
Oh !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  ban- 
ner yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the 

home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through 

the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where,  the   foe's    haughty  host    in 

dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er 

the  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals, 

now  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam    of    the 

morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on 

the  stream; 
'Tis  the  star-spangled  banner;    oh, 

long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the 

home  of  the  brave ! 


And  where  is  that  band  who  so 
vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  bat- 
tle's confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave 
us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their 
foul  footsteps'  pollution. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and 
slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the 
gloom  of  the  grave ; 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  tri- 
umph doth  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the 
home  of  the  brave. 

Oh!   thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen 

shall  stand 
Between  their  loved  homes  and  the 

war's  desolation! 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the 

heaven-rescued  land 
Praise  the  power  that  hath  made  and 

preserved  us  a  nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause 

it  is  just ; 
And  this  be  our  motto, —  *'  In  God  is 

our  trust,"  — 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  tri- 
umph shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the 

home  of  the  brave. 


KIMBALL. 


319 


Harriet  McEwen   Kimball. 


GOOD  NEWS. 

A  BEE  flew  in  at  my  window, 
And  circled  around  ray  head; 

He  came  like  a  herald  of  summer- 
time. 
And  what  do  you  think  he  said  ? 

"As  sure  as  the  roses  shall  blos- 
som "  — 
These  are  the  words  he  said, — 
"  As  sure  as  the  gardens  shall  laugh 
in  pride, 
And  the  meadows  blush  clover-red ; 

"As  sure  as  the  golden  robin 
Shall  build  her  a  swinging  nest. 

And  the  captured  sunbeam  lie  fast- 
locked 
In  the  marigold's  burning  breast; 

"  As  sure  as  the  water-lilies 
Shall  float  like  a  fairy  fleet; 

As  sure  as  the  torrent  shall  leap  the 
rocks 
With  foamy,  fantastic  feet; 

"  As  sure  as  the  bobolink's  carol 

And  the  plaint  of  the  whippoorwall 
Shall  gladden  the  morning,  and  sad- 
den the  night, 
And  the  crickets  pipe  loud  and 
shrill ; 

"  So  sure  to  the  heart  of  the  maiden 

Who  hath  loved  and  sorrowed  long, 

Glad  tidings  shall  bring  the  summer 

of  joy 

With   bursting   of    blossom    and 

song!" 

A  seer  as  well  as  a  herald ! 

For  while  I  sat  weeping  to-day, 
The  tenderest,  cheeriest  letter  came 

From  Lionel  far  away. 

.Good  news !  O  little  bee-prophet. 
Your  words  I  will  never  forget ! 

It  may  be  foolish, —  that  dear,  old 
sign,— 
But  Lionel's  true  to  me  yet! 


TROUBLE   TO  LEND. 

To-MORKOw  has  trouble  to  lend 

To  all  who  lack  to-day ; 
Go,    borrow    it,  —  borrow,    griefless 
heart. 

And  thou  with  thy  peace  wilt  pay  I 

To-morrow  has  trouble  to  lend, — 
An  endless,  endless  store; 

But  I  have  as  much  as  heart  can 
hold,— 
Why  should  I  borrow  more ! 


HELIOTROPE. 

Sweetest,  sweetest.  Heliotrope! 
In  the  sunset's  dying  splendor. 
In  the  trance  of  twilight  tender. 
All  my  senses  I  surrender. 

To  the  subtle  spells  that  bind  me: 
The  dim  air  swimmeth  in  my  sight 
With  visions  vague  of  soft  delight; 

Shadowy  hands  with  endless  cliain 

Of  purple-clustered  bloom  enwind 
me;  — 

Garlands  drenched  in  dreamy  rain 
Of  perfume  passionate  as  sorrow 
And  sad  as  Lo-^e's  to-morrow! 
Bewildering  music  fills  mine  ears, — 
Faint    laughter    and    commingling 
tears, — 

Flowing  like  delicious  pain 

Through  my  drowsy  brain. 
Bosomed  in  the  blissful  gloom, — 

Meseems    I    sink    on   slumberous 
slope 
Buried  deep  in  purple  bloom, 

Sweetest,  sweetest  Heliotrope! 

Undulates  the  earth  beneath  me: 

Still   the   shadow-hands  enwreath 
me, 
And  clouds  of  faces  half  defined, 

Lovely  and  fantastical, 

Sweet,  —  O  sweet !  —  and  strange 
withal, 
Sweeping  like  a  desert  wind 
Across  my  vision  leave  me  blind! 
Subtler  grows  the  spell  and  stronger; 


820 


KIMBALL. 


What    enchantments  weird    possess 
me, — 

Now  uplift  me,  now  oppress  me  ? 
Do  I  feast,  or  do  I  Imnger  ? 

Is  it  bliss,  or  is  it  anguish  ? 
Is  it  Auster's  treacherous  breath 
Kissing  me  with  honeyed  death, 

While  I  sicken,  droop,  and  languish  ? 

Still  I  feel  my  blood's  dull  beat 
In  my  head  and  hands  and  feet; 

Struggling  faintly  with  thy  sweet- 
ness, 

Heliotrope!  Heliotrope! 

Give  me  back  my  strength's  com- 
pleteness. 
Must  I  pine  and  languish  ever! 
Wilt  thou  loose  my  senses  never! 
Wilt  thou  bloom  and  bloom  for  ever. 

Oh,  Lethean  Heliotrope  ? 

Ah,  the  night-wind,  freshly  blowing, 
Sets  the  languid  blood  a-flowing ! 

I  revive! — 
I  escape  thy  spells  alive! 

Flower!  I  love  and  do  not  love  thee ! 
Hold  my  breath,  but  bend  above  thee ; 

Crush  thy  buds,  yet  bid  them  ope ; 

Sweetest,  sweetest  Heliotrope! 


DA  Y-DRE  AMINO. 

How  better  am  I 
Than  a  butterfly  ? 
Here,  as  tlie  noiseless  hours  go  by. 
Hour  by  hour, 
I   cling   to    my  fancy's    half -blown 

flower : 
Over  its  sweetness  I  brood  and  brood, 
And  scarcely  stir,  though  sounds  in- 
trude 
That  would  trouble  and  fret  another 
mood 
Less  divine 
Than  mine ! 


Who  cares  for  the  bees  ? 
I  will  take  my  ease, 
Dream    and    dream    as    long    as    I 

please; 
Hour  by  houi. 
With  love- wings  fanning  my  sweet, 

sweet  flower! 
Gather  your  honey,  and  hoard  your 

gold, 
Through    spring  and    summer,   and 

liive  through  cold! 
I  will  cling  to  my  flower  till  it  is 
mould, 
Breathe  one  sigh 
And  die! 


THE  LAST  APPEAL. 

The  room  is  swept  and  garnished  for 
thy  sake; 
The  table  spread  with  Love's  most 
liberal  cheer; 
The  fire  is  blazing  brightly  on  the 
hearth ; 
Faith  lingers  yet  to  give  thee  wel- 
come here. 
When  wilt  thou  come  ? 

Daily    I    weave    the    airy    web    of 
hope ; 
Frail  as  the  spider's,  wrought  with 
beads  of  dew, — 
That,  like  Penelope's,  each  night  un- 
done, 
Each  morn  in    patience   I  begin 
anew. 
When  wilt  thou  come  ? 

Not  yet !    To-morrow  Faith  will  take 
her  flight, 
The  fire  die  out,  the  banquet  dis- 
appear ; 
Forever  will  these  fingers  drop  the 
web, 
And  only  desolation  wait  thee  here. 
Oh,  come  to-day! 


KINGISLET. 


321 


Charles 

A  FAREWELL. 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to 
give  you," 
No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull 
and  gray ; 
i^et,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can 
leave  you 
For  every  day :  — 

Be  good,  my  dear,  and  let  who  will, 
be  clever; 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them, 
all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  the  vast 
forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 


KiNGSLEY. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining 
sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide 
went  down. 
And  the  women   are   weeping  and 
wringing  their  hands. 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back 
to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep  — 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner 
to  sleep  — 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its 
moaning. 


THE   THREE  FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to 
the  West — 
Away  to  the  West  as  the  sun  went 
down ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who 
loved  him  the  best. 
And  the  children  stood  watching 
them  out  of  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep ; 
And  there's  little  to  earn  and  many 
to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor-bar  be  moan- 
ing. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse 
tower 
And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun 
went  down ; 
They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they 
looked  at  the  shower. 
And  the  night-rack  came  rolling 
up,  ragged  and  brown. 
But  men  must  work  and  women  must 

weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden  and  waters 
deep. 
And  the  harbor-bar   be  moan- 
ing. 


DOLCINO   TO  MARGARET. 

The  world  goes  up  and  the  world 
goes  down. 
And    the    sunshine    follows    the 
rain; 
And  yesterday's  sneer  and  yesterday's 
frown  • 

Can  never  come  over  again. 

Sweet  wife; 
No,  never  come  over  again. 

For  woman  is  warm,  though  man  be 
cold, 
And   the    night  will    hallow  the 
day; 
Till  the  heart  which  at  eve  was  weary 
and  old 
Can  rise  in  the  morning  gay. 
Sweet  wife ; 
To  its  work  in  the  morning  gay. 


SANDS   OF  DEE. 

"  O  Mary,  go  and  call    the  cattle 
#  home, 

And  call  the  cattle  home 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee! " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank 
with  foam 
And  all  alone  went  she. 


322 


KNOX. 


The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the 
sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid 
the  land 
And  never  home  came  she. 

**  Oh  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating 
hair  — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair — 


Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so 
fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling 
foam  — 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam  — 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call 
the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 


William   Knox. 


OH!    WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MORTAL  BE  PROUD? 


Oh  !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal 
be  proud  ? 

Like  a  swift-tieeting  meteor,  a  fast- 
flying  cloud, 

A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of 
the  wave. 

He  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the 
grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow 

shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around,  and  together  be 

laid; 
As  the  young  and  the  old,  the  low 

and  the  high, 
Shall  crumble  to  dust  and  together 

shall  lie. 

The  infant,  a  mother  attended  and 

loved. 
The  mother,  that  infant's  affection 

who  proved. 
The  father,  that  mother  and  infant 

who  blest. 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  that  dwelling 

of  rest. 

The  maid,  on  whose  brow,  on  whose 
cheek,  in  whose  eye. 

Shone  beauty  and  pleasure,  —  her  tri- 
umphs are  by ; 


And  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  liv- 
ing erased 

Are  the  memories  of  mortals  who 
loved  her  and  praised. 

The  head  of  the  king,  that  the  sceptre 

hath  borne ; 
The  brow  of  the  priest,  that  the  mitre 

hath  worn; 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of 

the  brave,  — 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of 

the  grave. 

The  peasant,  whose  lot  was  to  sow 

and  to  reap; 
The  herdsman,  who  climbed  with  his 

goats  up  the  steep ; 
The  beggar,  who  wandered  in  search 

of  his  bread,  — 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that 

we  tread. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flower 
or  weed. 

That  withers  away  to  let  others  suc- 
ceed; 

So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those 
we  behold, 

To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often 
been  told. 


LACOSTE. 


32S 


For  we  are  the  same  that  our  fathers 

have  been; 
Wc  see   the   same   sights   that  our 

fathers  have  seen : 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we 

feel  tlie  same  sun. 
And  run  the  same  course  that  our 

fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our 
fathers  did  think; 

From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our 
fathers  did  slirink; 

To  the  hfe  we  ar3  clinging  our  fa- 
thers did  cling, 

But  it  speeds  from  us  all  like  the  bird 
on  the  wing. 

They  loved,  —  but  the  story  we  can- 
not unfold ; 

They  scorned,  —  but  the  heart  of  the 
haughty  is  cold ; 

They  grieved,  —  but  no  wail  from 
their  slumbers  will  come ; 

They  joyed,  —  but  the  tongue  of  their 
gladness  is  dumb. 


They  died,  — ah!  they  died;  —  we. 
things  that  are  now. 

That  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  ovei 
their  brow. 

And  make  in  their  dwelling  a  tran- 
sient abode. 

Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their 
pilgrimage  road. 

Yea,  hope  and  despondency,  pleasure 

and  pain. 
Are  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and 

rain : 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  and  the 

song  and  the  dirge, 
Still    follow   each    other  like  surge 

upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  wink  of  an  eye;  'tis  the 

draught  of  a  breath 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the 

paleness  of  death. 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier 

and  the  shroud ; 
Oh !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal 

be  proud  ? 


Marie  R.  Lacoste. 


SOMEBODY'S  DARLING. 


Into  a  ward   of   the   whitewashed 
walls, 
Wliere  the  dead  and  dying  lay, 
Womided    by  bayonets,   shells,   and 
balls. 
Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one 
day  — 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young,  and  so 
brave. 
Wearing  yet  on  his  pale  sweet  face, 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  the 
grave. 
The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's 
grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of 
gold,  [brow; 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould  — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 


Back  from  his  beautiful,  blue-veined 
brow, 
Brush  all  the  wandering  waves  of 
gold. 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now, 
Somebody's    darling    is    still  and 
cold. 


Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake. 

Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low ; 
One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates 
take. 
They  were  somebody's  pride,  you 
know: 
Somebody's  hand  has  rested  there, — 
Was  it  a  mother's  soft  and  white  ? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 
Been   baptized   in  those  waves  of 
light  ? 


824 


LAIGHTON. 


God  knows  best  —  he  was  somebody's 
love ; 
Somebody's  heart  enslirined  him 
there ; 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above 
Niglit  and  morn  on  the  wings  of 
prayer. 
Somebody  wept  wlien  he   marelied 
away 
Looking  so  liandsome,  brave,  and 
grand ; 
Somebody's    kiss    on    his    forehead 
lay, 
Somebody    clmig   to    his    parting 
hand. 


Somebody's  waiting  and  watching  for 
him  — 
Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  the 
heart ; 
And  there  he  lies  wi'Ji  his  blue  eyes 
dim, 
And    the    smiling,    childlike    lips 
apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead. 
Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave    a 
tear ; 
Carve    on    the    wooden  slab  at  his 
head, — 
"  Somebody's     darling     slumbers 
here." 


Albert  Laighton. 


UNDER   THE  LEAVES. 

Oft  have  I  walked  these  w^oodland 
paths, 

Without  the  blest  foreknowing 
Tliat  underneath  the  withered  leaves 

The  fairest  buds  were  growing. 


To-day  the  south-wind  sweeps  away 
The  t^^pes  of  autumn's  splendor, 

And  shows  the  sweet  arbutus  flowers, 
Spring's  children,  pure  and  tender. 


O    prophet-flowers !  —  with    lips    of 
bloom. 

Outvying  in  your  beauty 
The  pearly  tints  of  ocean  shells, — 

Ye  teach  me  faith  and  duty ! 


"  Walk  life's  dark  ways,"  ye  seem  to 

say, 

"With  love's  divine  foreknowing, 

That  where  man  sees  but  withered 

leaves, 

God  sees  sweet  flowers  growing." 


BY  THE  DEAD. 

Sweet  winter  roses,  stainless  as  the 

snow, 
As  was  thy  life,  O  tender  heart  and 

true! 
A  cross  of  lilies  that  our  tears  bedew, 
A  garland  of  the  fairest  flowers  that 

grow. 
And    filled    with    fragrance    as    the 

thought  of  thee, 
We  lay,  with  loving  hand,  upon  thy 

breast, 
Wrapt  in  the  calm  of  Death's  great 

mystery ; 
Ours  still  to  feel  the  pain,  the  unlan- 

guaged  woe. 
The  bitter  sense  of  loss,  the  vague 

unrest. 
And    wear    unseen  the  cypress-leaf 

and  rue. 
Thinking,  the  Avhile,  of  lovelier  flow- 
ers that  blow 
In  everlasting  gardens  of  the  blest, 
That  wither  not  like  these,  and  never 

shed 
Their  rare  and  heavenly  odors  for  the 

dead. 


LAMB. 


325 


Charles  Lamb. 


OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had 
companions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joy- 
ful school-days; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar 
faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been 

carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my 

bosom  cronies ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar 

faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among 

women ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must 

not  see  her; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar 

faces. 

1  have  a  friend,  a  kmder  friend  has 
no  man ; 

Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  ab- 
ruptly — 

Left  him  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar 
faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts 

of  my  childhood. 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound 

to  traverse. 
Seeking    to    find   the    old    familiar 

faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than 
a  brother, 

Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  fa- 
ther's dwelling? 

So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar 
faces  — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some 

they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are 

departed. 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar 

faces  I 


HESTER. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Tlieir  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try. 
With  vain  endeavor. 

A  month  or  more  has  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her  togetlier. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate. 
That  flushed  her  spirit : 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  sliall  it  call ;  —  if  't  was  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  tliat  allied. 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  dotli  the  human  feelings  cool ; 
But    she    was    trained    in    nature's 
scliool, 
Nature  had  blessed  her. 

A  waking* eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to*  bind ; 
A    hawk's   keen    sight    ye    cannot 
blind,  — 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore! 
Shall  we  not  meet  as  heretofore 


When  from  thy  cheerful  ej^es  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day,  — 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away,  — 
A  sweet  forewarning  ? 


THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 

The  frugal  snail, witli  forecast  of  re- 
pose, 

Carries  his  house  with  him  where'er 
he  goes ; 


326 


LAN L  ON. 


Peeps  out, — and  if  there  comes  a 
shower  of  rain, 

Retreats  to  his  small  domicile 
again. 

Touch  but  a  tip  of  him,  a  horn, — 'tis 
well,  — 

He  curls  up  in  his  sanctuary  shell. 

He 's  his  own  landlord,  his  own  ten- 
ant; stay 

Long  as  he  will,  he  dreads  no  quar- 
ter-day. 


Himself  he  boards  and  lodges ;  both 
invites 

And  feasts  himself ;  sleeps  with  him- 
self o'  nights. 

He  spares  the  upholsterer  trouble  to 
procure  [ture. 

Chattels;   himself  is  his  own  furni- 

And  his  sole  riches.  Wheresoe'erhe 
roam,  — 

Knock  when  you  will, — he's  sure  to 
be  at  home. 


L^TiTiA   Elizabeth   Landon. 


SUCCESS  ALONE  SEEN. 

Few  know  of  life's  beginnings  — 

men  behold 
The    goal  achieved;  —  the  warrior, 

when  his  SAVord 
Flashes  red  triumph  in  the  noonday 

sun; 
The  poet,  when  his  lyre  hangs  on  the 

palm; 
The  statesman,  when  the  crowd  pro- 
claim his  voice. 
And    mould    opinion  on  his  gifted 

tongue : 
They  count  not  life's  first  steps,  and 

never  think 
Upon  the  many  miserable  hours 
When  hope  deferred  was  sickness  to 

the  heart. 
They  reckon  not  the  battle  and  the 

march. 
The    long    privations    of    a  wasted 

youth ; 
They  never  see  the  banner  till  un- 
furled. 
What  are  to  them  the  solitary  nights 
Passed    pale  and  anxiously  by  the 

sickly  lamp, 
Till  the  young  poet  wins  the  world  at 

last 
To  listen  to  the  music  long  his  own  ? 
The  crowd  attend    the  statesman's 

fiery  mind 
That  makes  their  destiny;  but  they 

do  not  trace 
Its  struggle,  or  its  long  expectancy. 


Hard  are  life's  early  steps;  and,  but 

that  youth 
Is  buoyant,  confident,  and  strong  in 

hope. 
Men  would  behold  its  threshold,  and 

despair. 


THE  LITTLE  SHROUD. 


She  had  lost  many  children  —  now 
The  last  of  them  was  gone : 

And  day  and  night  she  sat  and  wept 
Beside  the  funeral  stone. 

One    midnight,   while  her  constant 
tears 

Were  falling  with  the  dew, 
She  heard  a  voice,  and  lo !  her  child 

Stood  by  her,  weeping  too ! 

His  shroud  was  damp,  his  face  was 
white; 
He  said  —  "I  cannot  sleep, 
Your  tears  have  made  my  shroud  so 
wet; 
O  mother,  do  not  weep!" 

Oh,  love  is  strong!  —  the    mother's 
heart 
Was  filled  with  tender  fears ; 
Oh,   love  is  strong!  — and   for  her 
child 
Her  grief  restrained  its  tears. 


LANDOR. 


327 


One  eve  a  light  shone  round  her  bed, 
And  there  she  saw  him  stand  — 

Her  infant  in  his  little  shroud, 
A  taper  in  his  hand. 

"  Lo!  mother,  see  my  shroud  is  dry, 
And  I  can  sleep  once  more!" 

And  beautiful  the  parting  smile 
The  little  infant  wore. 

The   mother   went   her    household 
ways  — 

Again  she  knelt  in  prayer. 
And  only  asked  of  heaven  its  aid 

Her  heavy  lot  to  bear. 


THE   POET, 

Ah,  deeply  the  minstrel  has  felt  all 
he  sings, 
Every  passion  he  paints  his  own 
bosom  has  known; 
No  note  of  wild  music  is  swept  from 
the  strings. 
But  first  his  own    feelings    have 
echoed  the  tone. 

Then  say  not  his  love  is  a  fugitive 
fire, 
That  the  heart  can  be  ice  while  the 
lip  is  of  flame : 
Oh,  say  not  that  truth  does  not  dwell 
with  the  lyre : 
For  the  pulse  of  the  heart  and  the 
harp  are  the  same. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  AT  POMPElf. 

I  SEE  the   ancient  master  pale  and 

worn. 
Though  on  him  shines  the    lovely 

southern  heaven, 
And  Xaples  greets  him  with  festivity. 


The  dying  by  the  dead :  for  his  great 
sake 

They  have  laid  bare  the  city  of  the 
lost: 

His  own  creations  fill  the  silent 
streets ; 

The  Roman  pavement  rings  with 
golden  spurs. 

The  Higliland  plaid  shades  dark  Ital- 
ian eyes. 

And  the  young  king  himself  is 
Ivanhoe. 


But  there  the  old  man  sits,  —  majes- 
tic, wan, 

Himself  a  mighty  vision  of  the  past ; 

The  glorious  mind  has  bowed  beneath 
its  toil ; 

He  does  not  hear  his  name  on  foreign 
lips 

That  thank  him  for  a  thousand  happy 
hours : 

He  does  not  see  the  glittering  groups 
that  press 

In  w^onder  and  in  homage  to  his  side; 

Death  is  beside  his  triumph. 


Walter  Savage  Landor. 


RUBIES. 

Often  I  have  heard  it  said 
That  her  lips  are  ruby  red. 
Little  heed  I  what  they  say, 
I  have  seen  as  red  as  they. 
Ere  she  smiled  on  other  men, 
Real  rubies  were  they  then. 

When  she  kissed  me  once  in  play. 
Rubies  were  less  bright  than  they, 


And  less  bright  were  those  which 

shone 
In  the  palace  of  the  sim. 
Will  they  be  as  bright  again? 
Not  if  kissed  by  other  men. 


/iV  N^O  HASTE. 

Nay,  thank  me  not  a^^in  for  those 
Camellias,  that  untim^y  rose; 
But  if,  whence  you  might  please  the 
more. 


828 


LANIER. 


And  win  the  few  unwon  before, 
I  sought  the  flowers  you  love  to  wear, 
O'er  joyed  to  see  them  in  your  hair, 
Upon  my  grave,  I  pray  you  set 
One  primrose  or  one  violet. 
.  .  .  Stay  ...  I  can  wait  a  little  yet. 


ROSE  AYLMER. 

kB.,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race  ? 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine  ? 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ? 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful 
eyes 

May  weep  but  never  see, 
k  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


DEATH  OF  THE  DAY. 

My  pictures  blacken  in  their  frames 

As  night  comes  on. 
And  youthful  maids  and  wrinkled 
dames 

Are  now  all  one. 


Death  of  the  Day!  a  sterner  Death 

Did  worse  before; 
The  fairest  form,  the  sweetest  breath, 

Away  he  bore. 


/   WILL  NOT  LOVE. 


I    WILL    not    love!    These    sounds 
have  often 

Burst  from  a  troubled  breast ; 
Rarely  from  one  no  sighs  could  soften. 

Rarely  from  one  at  rest. 


A    REQUEST. 

The  place  where  soon  I  think  to  lie, 
In  its  old  creviced  nook  hard  by, 

Rears  many  a  weed : 
If  parties  bring  you  there,  will  you 
Drop  slyly  in  a  grain  or  two 

Of  wallflower  seed  ? 

I  shall  not  see  it,  and  (too  sure!) 
I  shall  not  ever  hear  that  your 

Light  step  was  there ; 
But  the  rich  odor  some  fine  day 
Will,  what  I  cannot  do,  repay 
That  little  care. 


Sidney  Lanier. 

EVENING    SONG. 


Look  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sal- 
low sands. 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun 
and  sea; 
How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the 
lands ! 
Ah,  longer,  longer  we. 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts 
the  sun. 
As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy 
wine. 
And  Cleopatra  Night  drinks  all.  'Tis 
done ! 
Love,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine. 


Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort 
heaven's  heart; 
Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  un- 
lighted  sands ; 
O  Night,  divorce  our  sun  and  moon 
apart, — 
Never  our  lips,  om-  hands. 


FROM  THE  FLATS. 

What  heartache, —  ne'er  a  hill! 
Inexorable,  vapid,  vague  and  chill, 
The  drear  sand-levels  drain  my  spirit 

low, 
With  one  poor  word  they  tell  mc  all 

they  know ; 


LAIiCOM. 


329 


Whereat   their   stupid    tongues,    to 

tease  my  pain, 
Bo  draw  it  o'er  again  and  o'er  again. 
They  hurt  my  heart  with  griefs  I 

cannot  name : 
4-lways  the  same,  the  same. 

Nature  hath  no  surprise, 

No  ambuscade  of  beauty,  'gainst 
mine  eyes 

From  brake,  or  lurking  dell,  or  deep 
defile; 

No  humors,  frolic  forms, —  this  mile, 
that  mile; 

No  rich  reserves  or  happy-valley 
hopes 

Beyond  the  bends  of  roads,  the  dis- 
tant slopes. 

Her  fancy  fails,  her  wild  is  all  run 
tame: 
Ever  the  same,  the  same. 

Oh!  might  I  through  these  tears 

But  glimpse  some  hill  my  Georgia 
high  uprears. 

Where  white  the  quartz,  and  pink 
the  pebbles  shine, 

The  hickory  heavenward  strives,  the 
muscadine 

Swings  o'er  the  slope;  the  oak's  far- 
falling  shade 

Darkens  the  dog- wood  in  the  bottom 
glade,  « 


And  down  the  hollow  from  a  ferny 
nook 
Bright  leaps  a  living  brook! 


BETRA  YAL. 

The  sun  has  kissed  the  violet  sea, 
And  turned  the  violet  to  a  rose. 

O  Sea !  wouldst  thou  not  better  be 
Mere  violet  still  ?    Who  knows  ? 

who  knows  ? 
Well  hides  the  violet  in  the  wood : 
The  dead  leaf  wrinkles  her  a  hood, 
And  winter's  ill  is  violet's  good; 
But  the  bold  glory  of  the  rose, 
It  quickly  comes  and  quickly  goes ; 
Red  petals  whirling  in  white  snows. 
Ah  me ! 

The  sun  has  burnt  the  rose-red  sea : 
The  rose  is  turned  to  ashes  gray. 

O  Sea !  O  Sea !  mightst  thou  but  be 
The  violet  thou  hast  been  to-day ! 
The  sun  is  brave,  the  sun  is  bright, 
The  sun  is  lord  of  love  and  light ; 
But  after  him  it  cometh  night. 
O  anguish  of  the  lonesome  dark ! 
Once  a  girl's  body,  stiff  and  stark, 
Was  laid  in  a  tomb  without  a  mark. 
Ah  me! 


Lucy  Larcom. 


HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES. 

Poor  lone  Hannah, 
Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Faded,  wrinkled. 
Sitting,    stitching,    in    a    mournful 
muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she, 
W^hen  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree : 
Spring  and  winter, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,    binding 
shoes. 

Not  a  neighbor. 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse, 


To  her  whisper, 
"  Is    there    from   the    fishers    any 
news  ?" 
Oh,  her  heart's  adrift,  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone  1 
Night  and  morning, 
Hannah's  at    the  window,   binding 
shoes. 

Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  woos: 

Hale  and  clever, 
For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  sues. 
May-day  skies  are  all  aglow. 
And  the  waves  are  laughing  so! 


S80 


LARCOM. 


For  her  wedding 
Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  her 
shoes. 

May  is  passing: 
Mid  the  apple-boughs  a  pigeon  coos, 

Hannah  shudders, 
For  the  mild  southwester  mischief 
brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped : 
Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah's  at    the  window,   binding 
shoes. 

'Tis  November, 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  be- 
dews. 
From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose. 
Whispering  hoarsely,  "  Fishermen, 
Have    you,    have    you    heard    of 
Ben?" 
Old  with  watching, 
Hannah's    at  the  window,   binding 
shoes. 

Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she 
views 
Twenty  seasons, — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea: 
Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah's  at    the  window,   binding 
shoes. 


[From  Hints.] 
THE   CURTAIN  OF   THE  DARK. 

The  curtain  of  the  dark 
Is  pierced  by  many  a  rent : 

Out  of  the  star-wells,  spark  on  spark 
Trickles  through  night's  torn  tent. 

Grief  is  a  tattered  tent 

Wheretiirough    God's    light    doth 
shine. 
Who  glances  up,  at  eveiy  rent 

Shall  catch  a  ray  divine. 


UNWEDDED. 

Behold  her  there   in  the  evening 
sun. 
That  kindles  the  Indian  summer 
trees 
To  a  separate  burning  bush,  one  by 
one. 
Wherein  the  Glory  Divine  she  sees ! 

Mate  and  nestlings  she  never  had : 
Kith    and    kindred    have    passed 
away ; 
Yet  the  sunset  is  not  more  gently 
glad, 
That  follows  her  shadow,  and  fain 
would  stay. 

For  out  of  her  life  goes  a  breath  of 
bliss. 
And  a  sunlike  charm   from    her 
cheerful  eye, 
That  the  cloud    and    the    loitering 
breeze  would  miss ; 
A  balm  that  refreshes  the  passer- 
by. 

"Did  she  choose  it,  this  single  life?" 
Gossip,  she  saith  not,  and  who  can 
tell  ? 
But  many  a  mother,   and  many  a 
wife, 
Dra%\^  a  lot  more  lonely,  we  all 
know  well. 

Doubtless    she    had    her    romantic 
dream. 
Like  other  maidens,  in  May-time 
sweet, 
That  flushes  the  air  with  a  lingering 
gleam, 
And  goldens  the  grass  beneath  her 
feet : — 

A  dream  unmoulded  to  visible  form, 
That  keeps   the  world  rosy   with 
mists  of  youth, 
And  holds  her  in  loyalty  close  and 
warm. 
To  her  fine  ideal  ot  manly  truth. 

"  But  is  she  happy,  a  woman  alone  ?  " 

Gossip,    alone    in    this    crowded 

earth,  ; 


LARCOM. 


331 


With  a  voice    to    quiet    its  hourly 
moan, 
And  a  smile  to  heighten  its  rarer 
mirth! 

There  are  ends  more  worthy  than 
happiness : 
Who    seeks    it,   is    digging   joy's 


grave,  we  know. 
)le 


The  blessed  are  they  who  but  live  to 
bless ; 
She  found  out  that  mystery,  long 
ago. 

To  her  motherly,  sheltering  atmos- 
phere, 
The    children    hasten    from    icy 
homes : 
The  outcast  is  welcome  to  share  her 
cheer ; 
And  the  saint  with  a  fervent  beni- 
son  comes. 

For  the  heart  of  woman  is  large  as 
man's; 
God  gave  her  his  orphaned  world 
to  hold. 
And    whispered    through    her    His 
deeper  plans 
To  save  it  alive  from  the  outer 
cold. 

And  here  is  a  woman  who  under- 
stood 
Herself,  her  work,  and  God's  will 
with  her, 
To  gather  and  scatter  His  sheaves  of 
good, 
And  was  meekly  thankful,  though 
men  demur. 

Would  she  have  walked  more  nobly, 
think. 
With  a  man  beside  her,  to  point 
the  way, 
Hand  joining  hand  in  the  marriage- 
link? 
Possibly,  Yes ;  it  is  likelier,  Nay. 

For  all  men   have  not  wisdom  and 
might: 
Love's  eyes  are  tender,  and  blur 
the  map; 


And  a  wife  will  follow  by  faith,  not 
sight. 
In  the  chosen  footprint,   at  any 
hap. 

In  the  comfort  of  home  who  is  glad- 
der than  she  ? 
Yet,    stirred    by    no    murmur    of 
"  might  have  been," 
Her  heart  as  a  carolling  bird  soais 
free, 
With  the  song  of  each  nest  she  has 
glanced  within. 

Having   the  whole,  she    covets    no 
part: 
Hers  is    the  bliss  of    all   blessed 
things. 
The    tears    that    unto    her    eyelids 
start, 
Are  those  which  a  generous  pity 
brings ; 

Or  the  sympathy  of  heroic  faith 
With  a  holy  purposis,  achieved  or 
lost. 
To  stifle  the  truth  is  to  stop    her 
breath, 
For  she  rates  a  lie  at  its  deadly 
cost. 

Her  friends  are   good  women    and 
faithful  men, 
Who  seek  for  the  true,  and  uphold 
the  right; 
And   who    shall    proclaim    her    the 
weaker,  when 
Her  very  presence  puts  sin  to  flight? 

''  And  dreads  she  never  the  coming 
years  ?  " 
Gossip,    what    are    the    years    to 
her? 
All  winds  are  fair,  and  the  harbor 
nears, 
And  every  breeze  a  delight  will 
stir. 

Transfigured  under  the  sunset  trees, 
That"  wreathe  her  with  shadowy 
gold  and  red. 
She  looks  away  to  the  purple  seas, 
Whereon  her  shallop  will  soon  be 
sped. 


332 


LARCOM. 


She  reads  the  hereafter  by  the  here: 
A  beautiful  Now,  and  a  better  To 
Be: 
In  life  is  all  sweetness,  in  death  no 
fear, — 
You  waste  your  pity  on  such  as 
she. 


HAND  IN  HAND   WITH  ANGELS. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels, 

Through  the  world  we  go ; 
Brighter  eyes  are  on  us 

Than  we  blind  ones  know; 
Tenderer  voices  cheer  us 

Than  we  deaf  will  own; 
Never,  walking  heavenward, 

Can  we  walk  alone. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels, 

In  the  busy  street. 
By  the  winter  hearth-fires, — 

Everywhere, —  we  meet. 
Though  unfledged  and  songless, 

Bir.ls  of  Paradise; 
Heaven  looks  at  us  daily 

Out  of  human  eyes. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels; 

Oft  in  menial  guise ; 
By  the  same  strait  pathway 

Prince  and  beggar  rise.    • 
If  we  drop  the  fingers, 

Toil-imbrowned  and  worn. 
Then  one  link  with  heaven 

From  our  life  is  torn. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels: 

Some  are  fallen, —  alas! 
Soiled  wings  trail  pollution 

Over  all  they  pass. 
Lift  them  into  sunshine! 

Bid  them  seek  the  sky ! 
Weaker  is  your  soaring, 

When  they  cease  to  fly. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels ; 

Some  are  out  of  sight, 
Leading  us,  unknowing, 

Into  paths  of  light. 
Some  dear  hands  are  loosened 

From  our  earthly  clasp, 
Soul  in  soul  to  hold  us 

With  a  firmer  grasp. 


Hand  in  hand  with  angels, — 

'Tis  a  twisted  chain. 
Winding  heavenward,  earthward, 

Linking  joy  and  pain. 
There's  a  mournful  jarring. 

There's  a  clank  of  doubt, 
If  a  heart  grows  heavy. 

Or  a  hand's  left  out. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels 

Walking  every  day ;  — 
How  the  chain  may  lengthen, 

None  of  us  can  say. 
But  we  know  it  reaches 

From  earth's  lowliest  one, 
To  the  shining  seraph. 

Throned  beyond  the  sun. 

Hand  in  hand  with  angels ! 

Blessed  so  to  be ! 
Helped  are  all  the  helpers ; 

Giving  light,  they  see. 
He  who  aids  another 

Strengthens  more  than  one ; 
Sinking  earth  he  grapples 

To  the  Great  White  Throne. 


A   STRIP   OF  BLUE. 

I  DO  not  own  an  inch  of  land. 

But  all  I  see  is  mine, — 
The  orchard  and  the  mowing-fieldSo 

The  lawns  and  gardens  fine. 
The  winds  my  tax-collectors  are. 

They  bring  me  tithes  divine, — 
Wild  scents  and  subtle  essences, 

A  tribute  rare  and  free : 
And  more  magnificent  than  all. 

My  window  keeps  for  me 
A  glimpse  of  blue  immensity, — 

A  little  strip  of  sea. 

Richer  am  I  than  he  who  owns 

Great  fleets  and  argosies ; 
I  have  a  share  in  every  ship 

Won  by  the  inland  breeze 
To  loiter  on  yon  airy  road 

Above  the  apple-trees. 
I    freight    them    with    my    untold 
dreams. 


LAUCOM. 


333 


Each  boars  my  own  picked  crew; 
Anil  nobler  cargoes  wait  for  them 

Tlian  ever  India  knew, — 
My  sliips  that  sail  into  the  East 

Across  that  outlet  blue. 

Sometimes    they   seem    like   living 
shapes, — 

The  people  of  the  sky, — 
Guests    in    white    raiment    coming 
down 

From  heaven,  which  is  close  by: 
I  call  them  by  familiar  names, 

As  one  by  one  draws  nigh, 
{So  white,  so  light,  so  spirit-like. 

From  violet  mists  they  bloom ! 
The  aching  wastes  of  the  unknown 

Are  half  reclaimed  from  gloom. 
Since  on  life's  hospitable  sea 

All  souls  find  sailing-room. 

The  ocean  grows  a  weariness 

With  nothing  else  in  sight; 
Its  east    and    west,   its    north    and 
south. 

Spread  out  from  morn  to  night: 
We  miss  the  wann,  caressing  shore. 

Its  brooding  shade  and  light. 
A  part  is  greater  than  the  whole ; 

By  hints  are  mysteries  told ; 
The  fringes  of  eternity, — 

God's  sweeping  garment-fold. 
In  that  bright  shred  of  glimmering 
sea, 

I  reach  out  for,  and  hold. 

The  sails,  like  flakes  of  roseate  pearl, 

Float  in  upon  the  mist ; 
The   waves    are    broken     precious 
stones, — 

Sapphire  and  amethyst. 
Washed  from  celestial  basement  walls 

By  suns  unsetting  kissed. 


Out  through  the    utmost    gates    of 
space. 

Past  where  the  gray  stars  drift. 
To  the  widening  Infinite,  my  soul 

Glides  on,  a  vessel  swift; 
Yet  loses  not  her  anchorage 

In  yonder  azure  rift. 

Here  sit  I,  as  a  little  child : 

The  threshold  of  God's  door 
Is  that  clear  band  of  chrysoprase; 

Now  the  vast  temple  floor, 
The  blinding  glory  of  the  dome 

I  bow  my  head  before. 
The  universe,  O  God,  is  home, 

In  height  or  depth,  to  me; 
Yet  here  upon  thy  footstool  green 

Content  am  I  to  be ; 
Glad,  when  is  opened  to  my  need 

Some  sea-like  glimpse  of  thee. 


[From  Hints.] 
HEAVER  NEAR   THE    VIRTUOUS. 

They  whose  hearts  are  whole  and 
strong. 

Loving  holiness, 
Living  clean  from  soil  of  wrong. 

Wearing  truth's  white  dress, — 
They  unto  no  far-off  height 

Wearily  need  climb; 
Heaven  to  them  is  close  in  sight 

From  these  shores  of  time. 

Only  the  anointed  eye 

Sees  in  common  things, — 
Gleams  dropped  daily  from  the  sky^ 

Heavenly  blossomings. 
To  the  hearts  wliere  light  has  birth 

Nothing  can  be  drear; 
Budding  through  the  bloom  of  earth, 

Heaven  is  always  near. 


834 


LATHROP. 


George  Parsons   Lathrop. 


TO  MY  SON. 

Do  you  remember,  my  sweet,  absent 

son, 
How  in  the  soft  June  days  forever 

done 
You  loved  the  heavens  so  warm  and 

clear  and  high ; 
And  when  I  lifted  you,  soft  came 

your  cry  — 
"Put  me 'way  up  —  'way  up  in  the 

blue  sky?" 

I  laughed  and  said  I  could  not ;  set 

you  down. 
Your  gray  eyes  wonder-filled  beneath 

that  crown 
Of  bright  hair  gladdening  me  as  you 

raced  by. 
Another  Father  now,   more    strong 

than  I, 
Has  borne  you  voiceless  to  your  dear 

blue  sky. 


NEW  WOULD S. 

With  my  beloved  I  lingered  late  one 
night. 
At  last  the  hour  when  I  must  leave 

her  came : 
But,  as  I  turned,  a  fear  I  could  not 
name 
Possessed  me  that  the    long    sweet 

evening  might 
Prelude  some  sudden  storm,  whereby 
delight 
Should  perish.     What  if  Death,  ere 

dawn,  should  claim 
One  of  us  ?    What,  though  living, 
not  the  same 
Each  should  appear  to  each  in  morn- 
ing light  ? 

Changed  did  I  find  her,  truly,  the 

next  day : 
Ne'er  could  I  see  her  as  of  old 

again. 
That  strange  mood  seemed  to  draw  a 

cloud  away. 


And  let  her  beauty  pour  through 

every  vein 
Sunlight  and  life,  part  of  me.     Thug 

the  lover 
With  each  new  morn  a  new  world 

may  discover. 


THE  LILY-POND. 

Some  fairy  spirit  with  his  wand, 
I  think,  has  hovered  o'er  the  dell. 

And  spread  this  film  upon  the  pond. 
And  touched  it  with  this  drowsy 
spell. 

For  here  the  musing  soul  is  merged 

In  moods  no  other  scene  can  bring, 
And  sweeter  seems    the    air    when 
scourged 
With    wandering  wild-bees'    mur- 
muring. 

One  ripple  streaks  the  little  lake, 
Sharp    purple-blue;    the    birches, 
thin 
And    silvery,   crowd    the   edge,    yet 
break 
To  let  a  straying  sunbeam  in. 

How  came  we  through  the  yielding 
wood. 
That    day,   to    this  sweet-rustling 
shore  ? 
Oh,  there  together  while  we  stood, 
A  butterfly  was  wafted  o'er. 

In  sleepy  light ;  and  even  now 
His  glimmering  beauty  doth  return 

Upon  me  when  the  soft  winds  blow, 
And    lilies    toward    the    sunlight 
yearn. 

The  yielding  wood  ?    And  yet  'twas 
loth 

To  yield  unto  our  happy  march ; 
Doubtful  it  seemed,  at  times,  if  both 

Could  pass  its  green,  elastic  arch. 


LATHEOP. 


335 


Yet  there,  at  last,  upon  the  marge 
We  found  ourselves,  and  there,  be- 
hold. 
In  hosts  the  lilies,  white  and  large, 
Lay  close  with  hearts  of  downy 
gold! 

Deep  in  the  weedy  waters  spread 

The  rootlets  of  the  placid  bloom : 
So  sprung  my  love's  flower,  that  was 
bred 
In  deep  still    waters    of    heart' s- 
gloom. 

So  sprung;  and  so  that  morn  was 
nursed 

To  live  in  light,  and  on  the  pool 
Wherein  its  roots  were  deep  immersed 

Burst  into  beauty  broad  and  cool. 

Few  words  were  said;  a  moment 
passed ; 

I  know  not  how  it  came — that  awe 
And  ardor  of  a  glance  that  cast 

Our  love  in  universal  law. 

But  all  at  once  a  bird  sang  loud, 
From    dead  twigs  of  the  gleamy 
beech ; 
His  notes  dropped  dewy,  as  from  a 
cloud, 
A  blessing  on  our  married  speech. 

Ah,  Love !  how  fresh  and  rare,  even 
now. 
That  moment  and  that  mood  re- 
turn 
Upon  me,  when  the  soft  winds  blow. 
And    lilies    toward    the    sunlight 
yearn ! 


SAILOR'S  SONG. 

The    sea   goes  up,  the  sky  comes 

down. 
Oh,  can  you  spy  the  ancient  town, — 
The  granite  hills  so  hard  and  gray. 
That  rib  the  land  behind  the  bay  ? 
O  ye  ho,  boys !    Spread  her  wings  I 
Fair  winds,  boys:  send  her  home! 
O  ye  ho ! 


Three  years  ?    Is  it  so  long  that  we 
Have  lived  upon  the  lonely  sea  ? 
Oh,   often  I  thought  we'd  see  the 

town. 
When  the  sea  went  up,  and  the  sky 
came  down. 
O  ye  ho,  boys !    Spread  her  wings ! 
Fair  winds,  boys ;  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 

Even  the  winter  winds  would  rouse 
A  memory  of  my  father's  house; 
For  round  his  windows  and  his  door 
They  made  the  same  deep,  mouthless 
roar. 
O  ye  ho,  boys !    Spread  her  wings ! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 

And   when    the    summer's    breezes 

beat, 
Methought  I  saw  the  sunny  street 
Where  stood  my  Kate.     Beneath  her 

hand 
She  gazed  far  out,  far  out  from  land. 
O  ye  ho,  boys!    Spread  her  wings! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 

Farthest  away,  I  oftenest  dreamed 
That    I    was    with    her.     Then,    it 

seemed 
A  single  stride  the  ocean  wide 
Had  bridged  and  brought  me  to  her 
side. 
O  ye  ho,  boys!    Spread  her  wings! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  lioma ! 
O  ye  ho ! 


But  though  so  near  we're  drawing, 

now, 
'T  is  farther  off — I  know  not  how. 
We  sail  and  sail :  we  see  no  home. 
Would  we  into  the  port  were  come ! 
O  ye  ho,  boys!    Spread  her  wings! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 

At    night,   the  same  stars  o'er  the 

mast: 
The  mast  sways  round  ^-  however  fast 


386 


LAZARUS. 


We    fly — still    sways    and     swings 

around 
One  scanty  circle's  stany  bound. 
O  ye  ho,  boys !    Spread  her  wings ! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 

Ah,  many  a  month  those  stars  have 

shone. 
And  many  a  golden  morn  has  flown, 
•Since  that  so  solemn  happy  morn, 
When,  I  away,  my  babe  was  born. 
O  ye  ho,  boys !    Spread  her  wings ! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 

And,  though  so  near  we're  drawing 

now, 
'T  is  farther  otf  —  I  know  not  how  — 
1  would  not  aught  amiss  had  come 
To  babe  or  mother  there,  at  home ! 
O  ye  ho,  boys !    Spread  her  wings ! 
Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 

'T  is  but  a  seeming;  swiftly  rush 
The  seas,  beneath.     I  hear  the  crush 
Of  foamy  ridges  'gainst  the  prow. 
Longing  outspeeds  the  breeze,  I  know. 

O  ye  ho,  boys !    Spread  her  wings ! 

Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home ! 
O  ye  ho ! 

Patience,  my  mates!    Though   not 

this  eve, 
We  cast  our  anchor,  yet  believe, 


If  but  the  wind  holds,  short  the  run : 
We'll  sail  in  with  to-morrow's  sun. 

O  ye  ho,  boys!    Spread  her  wings! 

Fair  winds,  boys :  send  her  home  I 
O  ye  ho ! 


A  FACE  IN  THE  STREET. 

PooK,  withered  face,  that  yet  was 
once  so  fair. 
Grown  ashen-old  in  the  wild  fires 

of  lust  — 
Thy  star-like  beauty,  dimmed  with 

earthly  dust, 
Yet  breathing  of  a  purer  native  air ; 
They  who,  whilom,  cursed  vultures, 
sought  a  share 
Of    thy    dead    womanhood,    their 

greed  unjust 
Plave  satisfied,  have  stripped  and 

left  thee  bare. 
Still,  like  a  leaf  warped  by  the  au- 
tumn gust. 
And  driving  to  the  end,  thou  wrapp'st 
in  flame 
And  perfume  all  thy  hollow-eye<i 
decay. 
Feigning  on  those  gray  cheeks  the 
blush  that  Shame 
Took  with  her  when  she  fled  long 
since  away. 
Ah  God!  rain  fire  upon  this  foul- 

souled  city 
That  gives  such  death,  and  spares  its 
men, —  for  pity! 


Emma   Lazarus. 


[From  Scenes  in  the  Wood.  Suggested  by 
Robert  Schumann.'] 

PLEASANT  PROSPECT. 

Hail,  free,  clear  heavens !  above  our 
heads  again. 
With  white-winged  clouds  that  melt 
before  the  sun : 
Hail,  good   green  earth!  with  blos- 
soms, grass  and  grain : 
O'er  the  soft  rye  what  silvery  rip- 
ples rim! 


What  tawny  shadows!    Slowly  we 
have  won 

This  high  hill's  top:  on  the  wood's 
edge  we  stand, 

While  like  a  sea  below  us  rolls  the 
land. 

The  meadows  blush  with  clover,  and 
the  air 
Is  honeyed  with  its  keen  but  spicy 
smell ; 

In  silence  graze  the  kine,  but  every- 
where 


LAZARUS, 


8S7 


Pipe  the  glad  birds  that  in  the  for- 
est dwell; 
Where    hearths    are    set    curled 
wreaths  of  vapor  tell ; 
Life's  grace  and  promise  win  the  soul 

again; 
Hope  floods  the  heart  like  sunshine 
after  rain. 


IFrom  Scenes  in  the  Wood.     Suggested  by 
Jiobert  Schumann.] 

NIGHT. 

White  stars  begin  to  prick  the  wan 
blue  sky, 
The  trees  arise,  thick,  black  and 
tall:  between 
Their   slim,  dark  boles,  gray,   film- 
winged  gnats  that  fly 
Against  the  failing  western  red  are 

seen. 
The  footpaths  dumb    with    moss 
have  lost  their  green. 
Mysterious    shadows    settle    every- 
where, 
A  passionate  murmur  trembles  in  the 
air. 

Sweet  scents  wax  richer,  freshened 
with  cool  dews, 
The  whole    vast  forest  seems  to 
breathe,  to  sigh 
With  rustle,  hum  and  whisper  that 
confuse 
The  listening  ear,  blent  with  the 

fitful  cry 
Of  some  belated  bird.     In  the  far 
sky, 
Throbbing  with  stiirs,  there  stirs  a 

weird  unrest. 
Strange  joy,  akin  to  pain,  fulfils  the 
breast  — 

A  longing  born  of  fears  and  promises, 

A  wild  desire,  a  hope  that  heeds  no 

bound. 

A  ray  of  moonlight  struggling  through 

the  trees 

Startles  us  like  a  phantom;  on  the 

ground 
Fall  curious  shades;  white  glory 
spreads  around ; 


The  wood  is  past,  and  tranquil  mead- 
ows wide. 

Bathed  in  bright  vapor,  stretch  on 
every  side. 


A  MARCH  VIOLET. 

Black  boughs  against  a  pale  clear 

sky. 
Slight  mists  of  cloud-wreaths  floating 

by: 
Soft  sunlight,  gray-blue  smoky  air, 
AVet  thawing  snows  on  hillsides  bare; 
Loud  streanis,  moist  sodden  earth; 

below 
Quick  seedlings  stir,  rich  juices  flow 
Through  frozen  veins  of  rigid  wood. 
And  the  whole  forest  bestirs  in  bud. 
No  longer  stark  the  branches  spread 
An  iron  network  overhead. 
Albeit  naked  still  of  green ; 
Through    this    soft,   lustrous    vapor 

seen 
On  budding  boughs  a    warm  flush 

glows, 
With  tints  of  purple  and  pale  rose. 
Breathing  of  spring,  the  delicate  air 
Lifts  playfully  the  loosend  hair 
To  kiss  the  cool  brow.     Let  us  rest 
In  this  bright,  sheltered  nook,  now 

blest 
With  broad  noon  simshine  over  all, 
Though  here  June's  leafiest  shadows 

fall. 
Young  grass  sprouts  here.     Look  up ! 

the  sky 
Is  veiled  by  woven  greenery. 
Fresh  little  folded  leaves  —  the  first, 
And  goldener  than  green,  they  burst 
Their  thick  full  buds  and  take  the 

breeze. 
Here,  when  November  stripped  the 

trees. 
I  came  to  wrestle  with  a  grief: 
Solace  I  sought  not,  nor  relief. 
I  shed  no  tears,  I  craved  no  grace 
I  fain  would  see  Grief  face  to  face. 
Fathom  her  awful  eyes  at  length. 
Measure    my   strength    against    her 

strength, 
I  wondered  why  the  Preacher  saith, 
"  Like  as  the  grass  that  withereth." 


338 


LAZARUS. 


The    late,    close  blades  still  waved 

around ; 
I  clutched  a  handful  from  the  ground. 
"  He  mocks  us  cruelly,"  1  said: 
''  The   frail  herb  lives   and  she    is 

dead." 
I  lay  dumb,  sightless,  deaf  as  she; 
The  long  slow  hours  passed  over  me, 
I  saw  Grief  face  to  face ;  I  know 
The  very  form  and  traits  of  Woe. 
I  drained   the  galled    dregs    of  the 

draught 
She  offered  me :  I  could  have  laughed 
In  irony  of  sheer  despair, 
Although  1  could  not  weep.    The  air 
Thickened    with    twilight    shadows 

dim: 
I  rose  and  left.     I  knew  each  limb 
Of  these  great  trees,  each  gnarled, 

rough  root 
Piercing  the  clay,  each  cone  of  fruit 
They  bear  in  autumn. 

What  blooms  here, 
Filling  the  honeyed  atmosphere 
With  faint,  delicious  fragrancies. 
Freighted  with  blessed  memories  ? 
The  earliest  March  violet. 
Dear  as  the  image  of  Regret, 
And  beautiful  as  Hope.     Again 
Past    visions    thrill  and  haunt    my 

brain, 
Through  tears  I  see  the  nodding  head. 
The  purple  and  the  green  dispread. 
Here,   where  I   nursed  despair  that 

morn. 
The  promise  of  fresh  joy  is  bom. 
Arrayed  in  sober  colors  still, 
But  piercing  the  gray  mould  to  fill 
With  vague  sweet  influence  the  air. 
To  lift  the  heart's  dead  weight  of 

care. 
Longings  and  golden  dreams  to  bring 
With  joyous  phantasies  of  spring. 


REMEMBER. 

Remember  Him,  the  only  One, 

Now,  ere  the  years  flow  by,  — 
Now,  while  the  smile  is  on  thy  lip. 

The  light  within  thine  eye. 
Now,  ere  for  thee  the  sun  have  lost 

Its  glory  and  its  light. 
And    earth    rejoice    thee    not  with 
flowers. 

Nor  with  the  stars  the  night. 
Now,  while    thou   lovest  earth,  be- 
cause 

She  is  so  wondrous  fair 
With  daisies  and  with  primroses. 

And  sunlit,  waving  air; 
And  not  because  her  bosom  holds 

Thy  dearest  and  thy  best. 
And  some  day  will  thyself  infold 

In  calnl  and  peaceful  rest. 
Now,  while  thou  lovest  violets. 

Because  mid  grass  they  wave, 
And  not  because  they  bloom  upon 

Some  early-shapen  grave. 
Now,   while  thou  lovest    trembling 
stars. 

But  just  because  they  shine. 
And  not  because  they're  nearer  one 

Who  never  can  be  thine. 
Now,    while    thou    lovest    music's 
strains, 

Because  they  cheer  thy  heart. 
And  not  because  from  aching  eyes 

They  make  the  tear-drops  start. 
Now,  whilst  thou  lovest  all  on  earth 

And  deemest  all  will  last, 
Before  thy  hope  is  vanished  quite , 

And  every  joy  has  past ; 
Remember  Him,  the  only  One, 

Before  the  days  draw  nigh 
When  thou   shalt  have    no  joy  in 
them. 

And  praying,  yearn  to  die. 


LELAND.  —  LEYDEN, 


339 


Charles  Godfrey  Leland. 


MINE  OWN. 

AxD  oh,  the  longing,  burning  eyes ! 

And  oh,  the  gleaming  hair 
Which  waves  around  me,  night  and 
day, 

O'er  chamber,  hall,  and  stair! 

And  oh,  the  step,  half-dreamt,  half 
heard ! 

And  oh,  the  laughter  low ! 
And  memories  of  merriment 

Which  faded  long  ago ! 

Oh,  art  thou  Sylph, —  or  truly  Self, — 

Or  either  at  thy  choice  ? 
Oh,  speak  in  breeze  or  beating  heart, 

But  let  me  hear  thy  voice ! 

"Oh,  some  do  call  me  Laughter,  love; 

And  some  do  call  me  Sin;" 
"  And  they  may  call  thee  what  they 
will, 

So  I  thy  love  may  win." 

*'  And  some  do  call  me  Wantonness, 
And  some  do  call  me  Play : " 


"  Oh,  they  might  call  thee  what  they 
would 
If  thou  w^ert  mine  alway ! " 

"  And  some  do  call  me  Sorrow,  love, 
And  some  do  call  me  Tears, 

And  some  there  be   who  name  me 
Hope, 
And  some  that  name  me  Fears. 

"  And  some  do  call  me  Gentle  Heart, 
And  some  Forge,tfulness:" 

"  And  if  thou  com'st  as  one  or  all. 
Thou  comest  but  to  bless!" 

' '  And  some  do  call  me  Life,  sweet- 
heart, 

And  some  do  call  me  Death ; 
And  he  to  whom  the  two  are  one 

Has  won  my  heart  and  faith." 

She  twined  her  white  arms  round  his 
neck:  — 

The  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
"  And  if  I  live  or  if  I  die. 

We'll  never  part  again." 


John   Leyden. 


ODE  TO  AN  INDIAN  COIN. 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here? 
How  can  I  love  to  see  thee  shine 
So  bright,  whom  1  have  bought  so 

dear  ?  — 
The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear, 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arm; 
The  jackal's  shriek  bursts  on  mine 
ear 
Whom    mirth    and    music  wont  to 
charm. 

By  Cherical's  dark  wandering  streams. 
Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the 
wild, 


Sweet    visions    haunt    my   waking 
dreams 
Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  a  child, 
Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 
By  Esk  or  Eden's  classic  wave, 
Where  loves  of  youth  and  friend- 
ship smiled, 
Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave! 

Fade,  day-dreams  sweet;  from  mem- 
ory fade ! — 
The  perished  bliss  of  youth's  first 
prime. 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played, 
Revives  no  more  in  after  time. 
Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 


S4e 


LODGE. 


I  haste  to  an  untimely  grave ; 
The  daring  thoughts  that  soared 
sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  wave, 

Slave  of  the  mine !  thy  yellow  light 
Gleams    baleful    as    the  tomb-fire 
drear. 
A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 
My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer; 
Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a  tear, 
That    once    were    guiding    stars    to 
mine : 
Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many 
a  fear ! 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 


For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 
I  left  a  heart  that  loved  me  true ! 


I  crossed  the  tedious  ocean-wave. 
To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 
The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 

Chill  on  my  withered  heart :  the  grave 
Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view, — 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave ! 

Ha!  comest    thou    now  so    late    to 
mock 
A  wanderer's  banished  heart  for- 
lorn. 
Now   that  his  frame  the  lightning 
shock 
Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  has 

borne  ? 
From  love,  from  friendship,  coun- 
try, torn. 
To  memory's  fond  regrets  the  prey. 

Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I  scorn ! 
Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay ! 


Thomas  Lodge. 


ROSALINE. 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere, 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines. 

Of  self -same  color  is  her  hair, 
Whether  unfolded  or  in  twines : 

Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Refining  heaven  by  every  wink; 

The  gods  do  fear  when  as  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think. 

Her  cheeks    are    like  the   blushing 
cloud, 
That  beautifies  Aurora's  face; 
Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud, 
That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth 
grace. 

Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses. 
Whom    ranks    of    lilies    neighbor 
nigh; 


Within  which  bounds  she  balm  en- 
closes, 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity. 

Her  neck  like  to  a  stately  tower, 
Where  love  himself  imprisoned  lies. 

To  watch  for  glances,  every  hour. 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes. 


With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red. 
With  marble  white,  with  sapphire 
blue. 

Her  body  everywhere  is  fed, 
Yet  soft  in  touch  and  sweet  in  view. 

Nature  herself  her  shape  admires; 

The  gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight; 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires, 

And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth 
light. 


LOGAN— LOXGFELLOW. 


341 


John   Logan. 


THE  CUCKOO. 

Hail,   beauteous   stranger    of    the 
grove! 

Thou  messenger  of  spring ! 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 


Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 
Thy  certain  voice  we  hear. 

Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 
Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 


Delightful  visitant !  with  thee 
I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 

And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 
From  birds  among  the  bowers. 


I  The  schoolboy,  wandering  through 
the  wood 
To  pull  the  primrose  gay. 
Starts  thy  most  curious  voice  to  hear. 
And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 
Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 

An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 
Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear; 
Thou,  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song. 

No  winter  in  thy  year! 

Oh,  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee  I 
We'd  make  with  joyful  wing, 

Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 
Attendants  on  the  spring. 


Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

Saixt  Augustine  !  well  hast  thou 
said. 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 
Beneath    our   feet   each    deed  of 
shame  ! 


All 


things,     each    day's 


common 
events. 

That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 
Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents. 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  as- 
cend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design. 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less: 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
-And  all  occasions  of  excess: 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things : 
The  strife  for  triumph  more  than 
truth ; 
The    hardening  of    the  heart,  that 
brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth ; 


All  thoughts  of  ill :  all  evil  deeds, 
That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of 
ill: 

"Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ;  — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled 
down 

Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 
In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renoAvn 

The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 
That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert 
airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known. 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies. 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appeal 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 


342 


LONGFELLOW. 


The  heights  by  great  men  reached 
and  kept 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 
But  they,   while    their  companions 
slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 
With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast 
eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last,  * 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


WEARINESS. 

O  LITTLE  feet  !  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and 
fears 
Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your 
load; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease,  and  rest  begin. 
Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road. 

O  little  hands !  that  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask; 
I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men. 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O  little  hearts  I  that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires ; 
Mine  that  so  long  has  glowed   and 

burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires, 

O  little  souls!  as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source 
divine ; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears. 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine ! 


THE  MEETING. 

After  so  long  an  absence 

At  last  we  meet  again ; 
Does  the  meeting  give  us  pleasure, 

Or  does  it  give  us  pain? 

The  tree  of  life  has  been  shaken, 
And  but  few  of  us  linger  now. 

Like  the  Pfophet's  two  or  three  ber- 
ries 
In  the  top  of  the  uppennost  bough. 

We  cordialiy  greet  each  other 

In  the  old  familiar  tone ; 
And  we  think,  though  we  do  not  say 
it. 

How  old  and  gray  he  is  grown ! 

We  speak  of  a  Merry  Christmas, 
And  many  a  happy  New  Year; 

But  each  in  his  heart  is  thinking 
Of  those  that  are  not  here. 

We  speak  of  friends  and  their  for- 
tunes. 

And  of  what  they  did  and  said, 
Till  the  dead  alone  seem  living. 

And  the  living  alone  seem  dead. 

And  at  last  we  hardly  distinguish 
Between  the  ghosts  and  the  guests ; 

And  a  mist  and  shadow  of  sadness 
Steals  over  our  merriest  jests. 


STA  Y,  ST  A  Y  AT  HOME,  MY  HEART, 
AND  REST. 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and 

rest; 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest. 
For  those  that  wander  they  know  not 

where 
Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  homesick  and  distressed, 
They  wander  east,  they  wander  west. 
And  are  baffled  and  beaten  and  blown 

about 
By  the  winds  of  the  wilderness  of 

doubt ; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


MAIDEN     AND     WEATHERCOCK. 


Page  343. 


LONGFELLOW. 


343 


Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and 

rest: 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and 

fly, 

A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky : 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


NATURE. 

A.S  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is 

o'er. 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child 

to  bed. 
Half-willing,  half -reluctant  to  be 

led. 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on 

the  floor, 
Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open 

door; 
Nor  wholly    reassured    and    com- 
forted 
By  promises    of    others    in    their 

stead. 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may 

not  please  him  more ; 
So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes 

away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by 

the  hand 
Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we 

go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or 
stay. 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  under- 
stand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends 
the  w^hat  wc  know. 


THE  TIDES. 

T  SAW  the  long  line  of  the  vacant 

shore, 
The  sea-weed  and  the  shells  upon 

the  sand, 
And  the  brown  rocks  left  bare  on 

every  hand. 
As  if  the  ebbing  tide  would  flow  no 

more. 


Then  heard  I,  more  distinctly  than 
before, 

The  ocean  breathe,  and  its  great 
breast  expand ; 

And  hurrying  came  on  the  defence- 
less land 

The  insurgent  waters  with  tumul- 
tuous roar. 
All  thought  and  feeling  and  desire,  I 
said. 

Love,  laughter,  and  the  exultant 
joy  of  song, 

Have  ebbed  from  me  forever!  Sud- 
denly o'er  me 
They  swept  again  from  their   deep 
ocean-bed. 

And  in  a  tumult  of  delight,  and 
strong 

As  youth,  and  beautiful  as  youth^ 
upbore  me. 


MAIDEN  AND   WEATHERCOCK. 
MAIDEN. 

0  Weathekcock    on   the   village 

spire. 
With  your  golden    feathers    all    on 

fire. 
Tell  me,  what  can  you  see  from  your 

perch 
Above  there  over  the  tower  of  the 

church  ? 

WEATHEKCOCK. 

1  can  see  the  roofs  and  the  streets  be- 

low. 
And  the  people  moving  to  and  fro. 
And  beyond,  without  either  roof  or 

street. 
The  great  salt  sea,  and  the  fisher- 
man's fleet. 

I  can  see  a  ship  come  sailing  in 
Beyond  the  headlands  and  harbor  of 

Lynn, 
And  a  young  man  standing  on  the 

deck, 
With   a   silken   kerchief    round  his 

neck. 

Now  he  is  pressing  it  to  his  lips, 
And  now  he  is  kissing  his  finger-tips, 


844 


LONGFELLOW. 


And  now  he  is  lifting  and  waving  his 

liand, 
And  blowing  the  kisses  toward  the 

land. 

MAIDEN. 

Ah !  that  is  the  ship  from  over  the  sea, 
That  is  bringing  my  lover  back  to  me, 
Bringing  my  lover  so  fond  and  true. 
Who  does  not  change  with  the  wind 
like  you. 


WEATHERCOCK. 

If  I  change  with  all  the  winds  that 

blow. 
It  is  only  because  they  made  me  so. 
And  people  would  think  it  wondrous 

strange, 
If    I,    a    weathercock,    should    not 

change. 

O  pretty  maiden,  so  fine  and  fair, 

With  your  dreamy  eyes  and  your 
golden  hair, 

When  you  and  your  lover  meet  to- 
day 

You  will  thank  me  for  looking  some 
other  way ! 


THREE   FRIENDS   OF  MINE. 

The  doors  are  all  wide  open ;  at  the 
gate 

The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a 
blaze. 

And    seem    to  warm  the    air;    a 
dreamy  haze 

Hangs  o'er  the  Brighton  meadows 
like  a  fate ; 
And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides 
elate. 

The  flooded  Charles,  as  in  the  hap- 
pier days, 

Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name, 
and  stays 

His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled 
to  wait. 
I  also  wait;  but  they  will  come  no 
more. 

Those  friends  of  mine,  whose  pres- 
ence satisfied 


The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart. 

Ah  me! 
They  have  forgotten  the  pathway  to 

my  door! 
Something    is    gone    from  nature 

since  they  died. 
And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor 

can  be. 


THE   TWO  ANGELS. 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of 
Death, 
Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morn- 
ing broke ; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and 
beneath, 
The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with 
plumes  of  smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the 
same. 
Alike  their  features  and  their  robes 
of  white. 
But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth 
as  with  flame. 
And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes 
of  light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial 
way: 
Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and 
doubt  oppressed. 
"  Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest 
thou  betray 
The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at 
rest!" 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  as- 
phodels. 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to 
knock. 
And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in 
wells 
The  waters  sink  before  an  earth- 
quake's shock. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  agony. 
The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the 
pain. 
That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted 
me. 
And  now  returned  with  threefold 
strength  again. 


LONGFELLOW, 


345 


The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly 
guest, 
And  listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard 
God's  voice; 
And,   knowing  whatsoe'er  he   sent 
was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  re- 
joice. 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  filled  the 
house  with  light, 
"  My   errand   is    not   Death,    but 
Life,"  he  said; 
And  ere  he  answered,  passing  out  of 
sight. 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

'Twas  at  thy  door,  O  friend,  and  not 
at  mine. 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine 
wreath. 
Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice 
divine, 
Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound 
like  death.- 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden 
gloom, 
A  shadow  on  those  features  fair 
and  thin; 
And  softly  from    that  hushed  and 
darkened  room. 
Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one 
went  in. 

All  is  of  God !    If  He  but  wave  his 
hand. 
The  mists  collect,   the  rain  falls 
thick  and  loud, 
Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and 
land, 
Lo!  He  looks  back  from  the  de- 
parting cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are 
His; 
Without  His  leave,  they  pass  no 
threshold  o'er; 


Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  be- 
lieving this, 
Against  His  messengers  to  shut  the 
door  ? 


A   DAY  OF  SUNSHINE. 

0  GIFT  of  God !    O  perfect  day: 
Whereon  shall  no  man  work,   but 

play 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me, 
Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be ! 

Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through  every  nerve,  through  every 
vein, 

1  feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 

I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphonies; 
I  see  the  branches  downward  bent. 
Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky. 
Where  through  a  sapphire  sea,  the 

sun 
Sails  like  a  golden  galleon. 

Towards  yonder  cloud-lands  in  the 

west, 
Towards  yonder  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 
Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds!  and  waft  through  all 
the  rooms 

The  snow-flakes  of  the  cherry- 
blooms  ! 

Blow,  winds!  and  bend  within  my 
reach 

The  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach ! 

O  Life  and  Love !    O  happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is 

song! 
O  heart  of  man !  canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  ? 


346 


LONGFELLOW— LOVELACE. 


Samuel  Longfellow. 


FROM  MIRE  TO  BLOSSOM. 
NOVEMBER. 

The  dead  leaves,  their  rich  mosaics 
Of  olive  and  gold  and  brown, 

Had  laid  on  the  rain-wet  pavement. 
Through  all  the  embowered  town. 

They  were  washed  by  the  autumn 

tempest, 

They  were  trod  by  hurrying  feet, 

And  the  maids  came  out  with  their 

besoms 

And  swept  them  into  the  street, 

To  be  crushed  and  lost  forever, 
'JS^eath  the  wheels    in  the    black 
mire  lost; 

The  Summer's  precious  darlings, 
She  nurtured  at  such  cost ! 


O  words  that  have  fallen  from  me! 

O  golden  thoughts  and  true ! 
Must  I  see  in  the  leaves,  a  symbol 

Of  the  fate  which  awaiteth  you  ? 


Again  has  come  the  spring-time. 
With  the  crocus's  golden  bloom. 

With  the  smell  of  the  fresh-turned 
earth-mould. 
And  the  violet's  perfume. 

O  gardener !  tell  me  the  secret 
Of  thy  flowers  so  rare  and  sweet ! 

"  I  have  only  enriched  my  garden 
With  the    black    mire    from    the 
street!" 


Richard   Lovelace. 


TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  BEYOND 

THE  SEAS. 

If  to  be  absent  w^ere  to  be 
Away  from  thee; 
Or  that  when  I  am  gone 
You  or  I  were  alone ; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind,  or  swal- 
lowing wave. 

Though  seas  and  land  betwixt    us 
both. 
Our  faith  and  troth, 
Like  separated  souls. 
All  time  and  space  controls: 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  greet  as  an- 
gels greet. 

So  then  we  do  anticipate 
Our  after-fate, 
And  are  alive  in  the  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 


Can  speak  like  spirits  uncon fined 
In  heaven,  their  earthly  bodies  left 
behind. 


TO   LUCASTA,  ON  GOING    TO    THE 
WARS. 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you,  too,  shall  adore, 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 


LOVER. 


347 


Samuel  Lover. 


Ofl.'    WATCH  YOV  WELL  BY  DAY- 
LIGHT. 

Oh  !  watch  you  well  by  daylight, 

By  daylight  may  you  fear, 
But  keep  no  watch  in  darkness  — 

The  angels  then  are  near; 
For  Heaven  the  sense  bestoweth, 

Our  waking  life  to  keep, 
But  tender  mercy  showeth, 

To  guard  us  in  our  sleep. 
Then  watch  you  well  by  daylight. 

By  daylight  may  you  fear, 
But  keep  no  watch  in  darkness  — 

The  angels  then  are  near. 

Oh !  watch  you  well  in  pleasure  — 

For  pleasure  oft  betrays, 
But  keep  no  watch  in  sorrow, 

When  joy  withdraws  its  rays: 
For  in  the  hour  of  sorrow. 

As  in  the  darkness  drear, 
To  Heaven  entrust  the  morrow. 

For  the  angels  then  are  near. 
O  watch  you  well  by  daylight, 

By  daylight  may  you  fear. 
But  keep  no  watch  in  darkness  — 

The  angels  then  are  near. 


THE   CHILD  A:S.D   THE  AUTUMN 
LEAF. 

Down  by  the  river's  bank  I  strayed 

Upon  an  autumn  day; 
Beside  the  fading  forest  there, 

I  saw  a  child  at  play. 
She  played  among  the  yellow  leaves — 

The  leaves  that  once  were  green, 
And  flung  upon  the  passing  stream 

^\liat  once  had  blooming  been: 
Oh !  deeply  did  it  touch  my  heart 

To  see  that  child  at  play; 
It  was  the  sweet  unconscious  sport 

Of  childhood  with  decay. 

Fair  child,  if    by  this  stream    you 
stray, 
Wlien  after  years  go  by, 
The  scene  that  makes  thy  childhood's 
sport. 
May  wake  thy  age's  sigh: 


When  fast  you  see  around  you  fall 

The  summer's  leafy  pride. 
And  mark  the  river  hurrying  on 

Its  ne'er  returning  tide; 
Then  may  you  feel  in  pensive  mood 

That  life's  a  summer  dream; 
And  man,  at  last,  forgotten  falls  — 

A  leaf  upon  the  stream. 


THE  AXGEL'S   WING. 

When  by  the  evening's  quiet  light 

There  sit  two  silent  lovers. 
They  say,  while    in    such    tranquil 
plight, 
An  angel  round  them  hovers ; 
And  further  still  old  legends  tell,  — 
The  first  who  breaks  the  silent  spell. 
To  say  a  soft  and  pleasing  thing, 
Hath  felt  the  passing  angel's  wing! 

Thus,  a  musing  minstrel  sti-ayed 

By  the  summer  ocean. 
Gazing  on  a  lovely  maid, 

With  a  bard's  devotion: — 
Yet  this  love  he  never  spoke. 
Till  now  the  silent  spell  he  broke ;  — 
The  hidden  fire  to  flame  did  spring, 
Fanned  by  the  passing  angel's  wing! 

"  I  have  loved  thee  well  and  long, 
With  love  of  heaven's  own  mak- 
ing !  — 
This  is  not  a  poet's  song. 

But  a  true  heart's  speaking,  — 
I  will  love  thee,  still,  untired!" 
He  felt  —  he  spoke  —  as  one  inspired, 
The  words  did  frcm  Truth's  foun- 
tain spring. 
Upwaken'd  by  the  angel's  wing. 

Silence  o'er  the  maiden  fell. 
Her  beauty  lovelier  making;  — 

And  by  her  blush,  he  knew  full  well 
The  dawn  of  love  was  breaking. 

It  came  like  sunshine  o'er  his  heart! 

He  felt  that  they  should  never  part. 

She    spoke  —  and    oh !  —  the   lovely 
thing 

Had  felt  the  passing  angel's  wing. 


848 


LOWELL. 


YIELD  NOT,   THOU  SAD    ONE,    TO 
SIGHS. 

Oil  !    yield   not,   thou   sad    one,    to 
sighs. 
Nor  murmur  at  Destiny's  will. 
Behold,  for  each  pleasure  that  flies, 

Another  replacing  it  still. 
Time's  wing,  were  it  all  of  onef eather. 

Far  slower  would  be  in  its  flight : 
The    storm  gives  a  charm    to  fine 
weather, 
And  day  would  seem  dark  without 
night. 
Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to 
sighs. 

When  we  look  on  some  lake  that 
repeats 

The  loveliness  bounding  its  shore, 
A  breeze  o'er  the  soft  surface  fleets. 

And  the  mirror-like  beauty  is  o'er. 


But  the  breeze,  ere  it  ruffled  the  deep, 

Pervading  the  odorous  bowers, 
Awaken' d    the    powers    from  theii 
sleep. 
And  wafted  their  sweets  to  be  ours. 
Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to 
sighs. 

Oh,   blame  not  the  change  nor  the 

flight 

Of  our  joys  as  they're  passing  away, 

'Tis  the  swiftness  and  change  give 

delight —  .  (stay. 

They  would  '  pall  if  pennitted   lo 

More  gaily  they  glitter  in  flying. 

They  perish  in  lustre  still  bright, 
Like  the  hues  of  the  dolphin,  in  dy- 
ing, 
Or  the  humming-bird's  wing  in  its 
flight. 
Then  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to 
sighs. 


James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  HERITAGE. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 
And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and 
gold. 
And  he  inherits  soft  white  hands. 
And    tender   flesh  that  fears  the 

cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares; 
The  bank  may  break,  the  factory 
burn, 
A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares. 
And  soft  white  hands  could  hardly 

earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants. 
His    stomach    craves    for    dainty 
fare; 


With    sated    heart,    he    hears    the 
pants 
Of  toiling  hinds^with  brown  arms 

bare. 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  in- 
herit ? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit ; 
King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 

In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  In- 
"herit  ? 
Wishes    o'er  joyed     with    humble 
things, 
A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-worn  merit, 
Content    that    from    employment 
springs. 


LOWELL. 


349 


A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  in- 
herit ? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor, 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son!  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 
But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands. 
This    is    the  best  crop  from  thy 
lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  poor  man's  son!   scorn  not  thy 
state; 
There    is    worse    weariness    than 
thine. 
In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine. 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  be- 
nign; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last; 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  lieirsliip  vast 
By  records  of  a  well-filled  past; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


[From  the  Vision  of  Sir  Laun/al.] 
THE  GENEROSITY  OF  NATURE. 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  earth 
gives  us ; 
The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  comer  to 
die  in. 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes 
and  shrives  us. 
We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in ; 


At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things 

sold, 
Each  omice  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of 

gold; 
For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we 

pay, 

Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's 
tasking: 
'Tis  heaven  alone  that    is    given 
away, 
'Tis  only  God  may  be  had  for  the 

asking. 
No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
June  may  be  liad  by    the    poorest 

comer. 
And  what   is  so   rare  as   a  day  in 
June  ? 
Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be 
in  tune, 
And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear 
lays: 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  lis- 
ten. 
We  hear  life  murmur  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 
An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches 
and  towers, 
And,   groping  blindly  above  it    for 
light. 
Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flow- 
ers: 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 
Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  val- 
leys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows 

green. 
The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in 
its  chalice, 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade 
too  mean 
To  be  some  happy  creature's  pal- 
ace; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the 
sun, 
Atilt  like  a    blossom    among  the 
leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 
With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  re- 
ceives; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her 

wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  \lumb  breast 
flutters  and  sings ; 


350 


LOWELL. 


He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she 

to  her  nest, — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song 

is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 
And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed 

away 
Comes  flooding  back  with   a  ripply 

cheer, 
Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and 

bay; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop 

overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills 

it; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may 

have  been, 
*Tis  enough  for  us  now    that    the 

leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel 

right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blos- 
soms swell; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot 

help  knowing  [ing; 

That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  grow- 
Tlie  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our 

ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near. 
That    maize    has    sprouted,    that 

streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house 

hard  by ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news 

back. 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ; 
AVe  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's 

lowing, — 
And  hark !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the 

year. 
Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not 

how; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Every'thing  is  upward  striving; 
'Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be 

true 
A.S  for  grass^to  be  green  or  skies  to  be 
blue, — 
'Tis  the  natural  way  of  living: 


Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have 
fled? 
In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave 
no  wake ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they 
have  shed. 
The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and 
ache. 


AFTER   THE  BURIAL. 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor; 
When  skies  are  sweet  as  a  psalm. 
At  the  bows  it  lolls  so  stalwart, 
In  bluff,  broad-shouldered  calm. 

And  when  over  breakers  to  leeward 
The  tattered  surges  are  hurled. 
It  may  keep  our  head  to  the  tempest, 
With  its  grip  on  the  base  of    the 
world. 

But,  after  the  shipwreck,  tell  me 
What  help  in  its  iron  thews. 
Still  true  to  the  broken  hawser, 
Deep    down    among    sea-weed    and 
ooze? 

In  the  breaking  gulfs  of  sorrow, 
When  the  helpless  feet  stretch  out 
And  find  in  the  deeps  of  darkness 
No  footing  so  solid  as  doubt, 

Then  better  one  spar  of  memory, 
One  broken  plank  of  the  past. 
That  our  human  heart  may  cling  to, 
Though  hopeless  of  shore  at  last ! 

To  the  spirit  its  splendid  conjectures, 
To  the  flesh  its  sweet  despair. 
Its  tears  o'er  the  thin-worn  locket 
With  its  anguish  of  deathless  hair! 

Immortal  ?    I  feel  it  and  know  it. 
Who  doubts  it  of  such  as  she  ? 
But  that  is  the  pang's  very  secret; 
Immortal  away  from  me! 

There's  a  narrow  ridge  in  the  grave- 
yard 

Would  scarce  stay  a  child  in  his 
race. 

But  to  me  and  my  thought,  it  is  wider 

Than  the  star-soAvn  vague  of  space. 


AUF    WIEDERSEHEN.     (TILL    WE    MEET    AGAIN.) 


Page  351 


LOWELL, 


351 


Your  logic,  my  friend,  is  perfect, 
Your  morals  most  drearily  true ; 
But,  since  the  earth  clashed  on  her 

coffin, 
I  keep  hearing  that,  and  not  you. 

Console  if  you  will,  I  can  bear  it; 
'Tis  a  well-meant  alms  of  breath; 
But  not  all  the  preaching  since  Adam 
Has  made  death  other  than  death. 

It  is  pagan ;  but  wait  till  you  feel  it ; 
That  jar  of  our  earth,  that  dull  shock 
When  the  ploughshare  of  deeper  pas- 
sion 
Tears  down  to  our  primitive  rock. 

Communion  in  spirit  I    Forgive  me ! 
But  I,  who  am  earthy  and  weak. 
Would    give    all  my  incomes  from 

dreamland 
For  a  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  cheek. 

That  little  shoe  in  the  corner. 
So  worn  and  wrinkled  and  brown, 
AVith  its  emptiness  confutes  you, 
And  argues  your  wisdom  down. 


[From  Under  the  Willows.] 
JUNE. 

Frank-hearted  hostess  of  the  field 

.and  wood, 
Gypsy,  w^hose  roof  is  every  spreading 

tree, 
June  is  the  pearl  of  our  New  England 

year. 
Still   a    surprisal,   though    expected 

long, 
Her  coming  startles.     Long  she  lies 

in  wait. 
Makes  many  a  feint,  peeps   forth, 

draws  coyly  back. 
Then,  from  some  southern  ambush 

in  the  sky. 
With    one    great    gush    of   blossom 

storms  the  world. 
A  week  ago  the  sparrow  was  divine; 
The  blue-bird  shifting  his  light  load 

of  song 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless 

fence. 


Was  as  a  rhymer  ere  the  poet  come : 
But  now,  O  rapture !  sunshine-winged 

and  voiced. 
Pipe  blown  through  by  the    warm 

wild  breath  of  the  West, 
Shepherding  his  soft  droves  of  fleecy 

cloud, 
Gladness  of  woods,  skies,  waters  all 

in  one, 
The  bobolink  has  come,  and,  like  the 

soul 
Of  the  sweet  season  vocal  in  a  bird. 
Gurgles  in  ecstasy  we  know  not  what, 
SsixeJiine  !  Dear  June  !  Now  God  be 

praised  for  June. 


AUF   WIEDERSEHEN. 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last. 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said, —  ^^Auf  wiedersehen !  " 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright. 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said,—  *^Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the 
stair; 
I  linger  in  delicious  pain; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To   breathe   in   thought    I    scarcely 
dare. 
Thinks  she, — ^^Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

'Tis  thirteen    years;    once  more  I 
press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah,  yes, 

I  hear  ^'Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 
The  English  words  had  seemed  too 
fain. 
But  these  —  they  drew  us  heart  to 

heart. 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 
She  said,  —  '^Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 


352 


LOWELL. 


STORM  AT  APPLE DORE. 

How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm  ? 
I  have    seen    it    when    its    crags 

seemed  frantic, 
Butting  against  the  mad  Atlantic, 
When  sm-ge  on  surge  would   heap 
enorme. 
Cliffs  of  emerald  topped  with  snow, 
That  lifted  and  lifted,  and  then  let 
go 
A  great  white  avalanche  of  tlumder, 
A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 
Monadnock  might  have  trembled  un- 
der; 
And  the  island,  whose  rock-roots 

pierce  below 
To  where  they  are  warmed  with 
the  central  fire, 
You   could    feel    its   granite   fibres 
racked. 
As  it  seemed  to  plunge    with    a 

shudder  and  thrill 
Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping 
hill, 
And  to  rise  again  snorting  a  cataract 
Of  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and 


While  the  sea  drew  its  breath  in 
hoarse  and  deep. 
And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its 
edge. 
Gathering  itself  for  a  mightier  leap. 

Korth,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs 
and  breakers 
You    would    never    dream    of    in 
smooth  weather, 
That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres. 
Bellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarl- 
ing together; 
Look  northward,  where  Duck  Island 

lies. 
And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise. 
Against  a  background  of  slaty  skies, 
A  row  of  pillars  still  and  white. 
That  glimmer,  and  then  are  out  of 
sight. 
As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss. 
While  you  crossed  the  gusty  desert 
by  night. 
The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis; 
Look  southward   for  White  Island 
light, 


The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er 
the  tide ; 
There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult 

and  fight. 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and 
fright, 
And  surging  bewilderment  wild  and 
wide. 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and 
right, 
Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing 
sea, 
And  then  the  lighthouse  slim  and 

lone; 
And  whenever  .the  weight  of  ocean  is 

thrown 
Full  and  fair  on  White  Island  head, 
A  great  mist-jotun  you  will  see 
Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High  and  huge  o'er  the  lighthouse 

top. 
With  hands  of  wavering  spray  out- 
spread. 
Groping  after  the  little  tower. 
That  seems  to  shrink  and  shorten 
and  cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden 
drop. 
And  silently  and  fruitlessly 
He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,    meanwhile,    where    drenched 
you  stand. 
Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and 
roar, 
And  on  the  rock-point  tighten  your 

hand. 
As  you  turn  and  see  a  valley  deep, 
That  was  not  there  a  moment  be- 
fore. 
Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a 
.  heap  [fall 

Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant 
Must  sink  the  whole  island  once 
for  all ; 
Or  watch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 
Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and 
more; 
If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high 

as  the  knees, 
They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a 

sprig  of  kelp, 
Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help ;  — 
And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 


LYTE  —  LYTLE. 


353 


Henry  Francis  Lyte. 


ABIDE   WITH  ME. 

Abide  with  me !  fast  falls  the  even- 
tide; 

The  darkness  deepens;  Lord,  with 
me  abide ! 

When  other  helpers  fail,  and  com- 
forts flee, 

Help  of  the  helpless,  oh,  abide  with 
me! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little 

day; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim;  its   glories 

pass  away; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see; 
O  Thou  who  changest  not,  abide  with 

me! 

Not  a  brief  glance,  I  beg,  a  passing 
word ; 

But  as  Thou  dwelledst  with  Thy  dis- 
ciples, Lord, 

Familiar,  condescending,  patient, 
free. 

Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide  with 
me! 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of 

kings; 
But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in 

Thy  wings; 
Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every 

plea; 
Come,  Friend  of  sinners,  thus  abide 

with  me ! 


Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youth  didst 

smile; 
And,  though  rebellious  and  perverse 

meanwhile, 
Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left 

Thee. 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with 

me! 

I  need  Thy  presence  every  passing 

hour: 
What    but   Thy  grace   can  foil  the 

tempter's  power  ? 
Who  like  Thyself  my  guide  and  stay 

can  be  ? 
Through    cloud    and    sunshine,  oh, 

abide  with  me ! 

I  fear  no  foe,  with  Thee  at  hand  to 
bless : 

Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bit- 
terness : 

Where  is  Death's  sting?  \Yhere 
Grave,  thy  victory  ? 

I  triumph  still,  if  Thou  abide  with 
me! 

Hold,  then.  Thy  cross    before   my 

closing  eyes ! 
Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  point 

me  to  the  skies ! 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  earth's 

vain  shadows  flee ; 
In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with 

me! 


William   Haines   Lytle. 


ANTONY  TO  CLEOPATItA. 

I  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying, 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast. 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast ; 
Let   thine   arms,  O  Queen,   enfold 
me. 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear; 
Listen  to  the  great  heart-secrets. 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 


Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  le- 
gions 
Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more. 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  gal- 
leys 
Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore, 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surromid 
me, 
Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman, 
Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 


354 


MACAULAY, 


Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
'T  was  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled 
him,  [blow : 

'Twas    his  own  that    struck  the 
His,  who  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray, 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 
Where  my  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home. 
Seek  her;  say  the  gods  bear  witness  — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings  — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commin- 
gled, [kings. 

Yet  shall   mount   the   throne  of 


As  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian! 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile! 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  si)lendors  of  thy  smile. 
Give  the  Caesar  crowns  and  arches. 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine: 
I  can  scorn  the  Senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying ! 

Hark  !     the    insulting    foeman's 
cry. 
They   are  coming  —  quick,  my   fal- 
chion ! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah !  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell; 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee ! 

Cleopatra  —  Rome  —  farewell ! 


Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 


FJiOM  THE  LAY   OF  ''HORATIUS.' 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium, 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting-day. 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth. 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north. 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast. 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home. 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome ! 

The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place, 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain. 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 


Like  an  eagle's  nest  hangs  on  the 
crest 
Of  purple  Apennine: 


There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land. 
Who  always  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand. 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore ; 

And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given: 
"  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena; 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven ! 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium' s  royal  dome. 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome!" 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 


MACAULAY. 


355 


Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array ; 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting-day. 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 

Were  ranged  beneath  liis  eye, 
And  many  a  banished  Roman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally; 
And  with  a  mighty  following, 

To  join  the  muster,  came 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  evei-y  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands, 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain ; 
Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat. 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns. 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  coimcil,  standing 

Before  the  River-gate ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may 
guess. 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly: 

"  The    bridge    must    straight    go 
down; 
For,  since  .Janiculum  is  lost. 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 
All  wild  with  haste  and  fear ; 


''  To  arms!  to  arms!  Sir  Consul; 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 
(3n  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come; 
And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is    heard    the    trumpets'    war-note 
proud, 

The  trampling  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright. 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

Overlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium  . 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name ; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  finnament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed. 
No  child  but  screamed  out  cm-ses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad. 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  v/all, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe : 
"  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down ; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?" 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  gate : 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 


356 


MAC  A  UL  AY. 


For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 
And  the  temples  of  his  gods  ? 

"  And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  tlie  wife  wlio  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame,  — 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextns 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame? 

"Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

W^ith  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me. 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three : 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?  " 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius,  — 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he : 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius,  — 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he : 
*'  1  will  abide  on  thy  left  side. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"  As  thou  say  est  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Went  forth  the  dauntless  three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  laud  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party  — 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great; 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned ! 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold : 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe. 
And  the  tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction. 

In  battle  we  wax  cold ; 


Wherefore    men    fight   not  as  they 
fought 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  while  the  three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs. 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe; 
And  fathers,  mixed  with  commons^ 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow. 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above. 

And  loosed  the  props  below, 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army. 

Right  glorious  to  behold. 
Came    flashing    back    the    noonday 

light. 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee. 
As  that  great  host  with  measured 

tread. 
And  spears  advanced,   and   ensigns 

spread, 
Rolled   slowly  towards  the  bridge's 
head, 
Where  stood  the  dauntless  three. 

The  three  stood  calm  and  silent. 

And  looked  upon  the  foes. 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose ; 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords 

they  drew. 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and 
flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 


Herminius  smote  down  Aruns ; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low; 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow : 
"  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "  fell  pirate! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale. 
From  Oslia's  walls  the  crowd  shall 

mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark ; 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns,  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accm-sed  sail! " 


MACAULAY. 


357 


But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes : 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  length  from  the  entrance, 

Halted  that  mighty  mass, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  pass. 

But,  hark  I  the  cry  is  Astur: 

And  lol  the  ranks  divide; 
And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans, 

A  smile  serene  and  high ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "  The  she-wolf's  litter 

Stands  savagely  at  bay ; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow. 

If  Astur  clears  the  way?  " 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height. 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet 

too  nigh; 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his 

thigh. 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space, 
Then,     like    a    wild-cat    mad    with 
wounds. 

Sprang  right  at  Astur' s  face. 
Through  teeth  and  skull  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped,  [out 

The  good  sword  stood  a  handbreadth 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 
Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke. 

As  falls  on  Mount  Avernus 
A  thunder-smitten  oak. 


Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 
The  giant  arms  lie  spread ; 

And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low^ 
Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud : 
"Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury. 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred. 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied ; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius! " 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all  — 
"Back,  Lartius!  back,  Herminius! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall! " 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius  — 

Henninius  darted  back ; 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their 
feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They   would    have    crossed   once 
more; 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam. 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream; 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And  like  a  horse  unbroken. 
When  first  he  feels  the  rein. 


358 


MACAULAY, 


The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 
And  tossed  his  tawny  mane, 

And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 
Rejoicing  to  be  free ; 

And  whirhng  down,  in  fierce  career. 

Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier. 
Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind  — 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before. 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
''Down    with    him!"     cried    false 
Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face ; 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Por- 
sena, 

" Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace!  " 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see : 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome : 

"O  Tiber!  Father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms. 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day ! " 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank. 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  sur- 
prise. 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes. 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear. 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry. 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 
Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain ; 

And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing; 
And  he  was  sore  in  pain. 


And  heavy  with  his  armor. 

And  spent  with  changing  blows ; 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 
But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer. 

In  such  an  evil  case. 
Struggle    through     such    a    raging 
■^  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place ; 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"Curse  on  him!"  quoth  false  Sex- 
tus— 

"  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town ! " 
"Heaven  help    him!"    quoth  Lars 
Porsena, 

"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-Gate. 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land. 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could     plough    from     morn     til) 
night; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high  — 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see,  — 
Horatius  in  his  harness 

Halting  upon  one  knee; 
And  underneath  is  written. 

In  letters  all  of  gold. 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


MACDONALD. 


359 


George  MacDonald. 


THE  BABY. 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby 

dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

Wliere  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  1  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  spar- 
kle and  spin  ? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
I  foimd  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth 

and  high  ? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm 

white  rose  ? 
I  saw  something  better  than  any  one 

knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of 

bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear  ? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and 

hands  ? 
Love  made   itself    into   bonds   and 

bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  dar- 
ling things  ? 

From  the  same  box  as  the  cherub's 
wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be 

you? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew, 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you 

dear? 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am 

here. 


O  LASSIE  AYONT  THE  HILL. 

O  LASSIE  ayont  the  hill ! 
Come  owerthe  tap  o'  the  hill, 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill, 
For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
I'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
For  I'm  tired  and  sick  o'  mysel', 
A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht, — 
O  lassie,  come  ower  the  hill ! 

Gin  a  body  could  be  a  thocht  o'  grace, 

And  no  a  sel'  ava ! 

I'm  sick  o'  my  held,  and  my  ban's 

and  my  face, 
An'  my  thochts  and  mysel'  and  a'  ; 
I'm  sick  o'  the  warl'  and  a'  ; 
The  licht  gangs  by  wi'  a  hiss; 
For  thro'  my  een  the  sunbeams  fa', 
But  my  weary  heart  they  miss. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill. 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill ; 
Bidena  ayont  the  hill ! 

For  gin  ance  I  saw  yer  bonnie  held. 
And  the  sunlicht  o'  yer  hair. 
The  ghaist  o'  mysel'  wad  fa'  doun 
deid; 

1  wad  be  mysel'  nae  mair. 
I  wad  be  mysel'  nae  mair. 
Filled  o'  the  sole  remeid; 

Slain  by  the  arrows  o'  licht  frae  ye* 

hair. 
Killed  by  yer  body  and  held. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill,  etc. 

But  gin  ye  lo'ed  me  ever  sac  sma', 
For  the  sake  o'  my  bonnie  dame. 
Whan  I   cam'    to  life,   as  she   gaed 
awa', 

1  could  bide  my  body  and  name, 

I  micht  bide  by  mysel,   the  weary 

same; 
Aye  setting  up  its  held 
Till  I  turn  frae  the  claes  that  cove! 

my  frame, 
As  gin  they  war  roun'  the  deid. 
O  lassie  ayont  the  hill,  etc. 


360 


MACE. 


But  gin  ye  lo'ed  me  as  I  lo'e  you, 
I  wad  ring  my  ain  deid  knell ; 
Mysel'  wad  vanish,  shot  through  and 

through 
Wi'  the  shine  o'  yer  sunny  sel', 
By  the  licht  aneath  yer  broo, 
I  wad  dee  to  mysel',  and  ring  my  bell, 
And  only  live  in  you. 


O  lassie  ayont  the  hill ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill. 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill. 
For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
I'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
For  I'm  tired  and  sick  o'  mysel', 
A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht.;-^ 
O  lassie,  come  ower  the  hill  I 


Frances  Laughton   Mace. 


EASTER  MOIiNi:NG. 

Open  the  gates  of  the  Temple ; 
Spread  branches  of  palm    and  of 
bay; 
Let  not  the  spirits  of  nature 

Alone  deck  the  Conqueror's  way. 
While  Spring  from  her  death-sleep 
arises, 
And  joyous  His  presence  awaits. 
While  morning's  smile  lights  up  the 
heavens. 
Open  the  Beautiful  Gates. 

He  is  here!    The  long  watches  are 
over. 
The  stone  from  the  grave  rolled 
away; 
*'  We  shall  sleep,"  was  the  sigh  of  the 
midnight, 
"  We  shall  rise ! "  is  the  song  of  to- 
day. 
O  Music !  no  longer  lamenting. 

On  pinions  of  tremulous  flame, 
Go  soaring  to  meet  the  Beloved, 
And  swell  the  new  song  of  His 
fame! 

The  altar  is  snowy  with  blossoms. 

The  font  is  a  vase  of  perfume, 
On  pillar  and  chancel  are  twining 

Fresh  garlands  of  eloquent  bloom. 
Christ  is  risen!  with  glad    lips  we 
utter, 

And  far  up  the  infinite  height. 
Archangels  the  psean  re-echo. 

And    crown    Him  with  Lilies  of 
Light! 


ONLY   WAITING. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown, 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 

From  this  heart  once  full  of  day, 
Till  the  dawn  of  Heaven  is  breaking 

Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Have  the  last  sheaf  gathered  home. 
For  the  summer-time  hath  faded. 

And  the  autumn  winds  are  come. 
Quickly,  reapers !  gather  quickly, 

The  last  ripe  hours  of  my  heart. 
For  the  bloom  of  life  is  withered. 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 

Only  waiting  till  the  angels 

Open  wide  the  mystic  gate. 
At  whose  feet  I  long  have  lingered, 

AVeary,  poor,  and  desolate. 
Even  now  I  hear  their  footsteps 

And  their  voices  far  away  — 
If  they  call  me,  I  am  waiting. 

Only  waiting  to  obey. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown  — 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown. 
When  from  out  the  folded  darkness 

Holy,  deathless  stars  shall  rise, 
By  whose  light,  my  soul  will  gladly 

Wing  her  passage  to  the  skies. 


MAC  KAY. 


361 


THE  HELIOTROPE. 

SoMEWHEKE  'tis  told  that  in  an  East- 
ern land, 

Clasped  in  the  dull  palm  of  a  mum- 
my's hand, 

A  few  light  seeds  were  found;  with 
wondering  eyes 

And  words  of  awe  was  lifted  up  the 
prize. 

And  much  they  marvelled  what  could 
be  so  dear 

Of  herb  or  flower  as  to  be  treasured 
here; 

What  sacred  vow  had  made  the  dy- 
ing keep 

So  close  this  token  for  his  last,  long 
sleep. 

None  ever  knew,  but  in  the  fresh, 
warm  earth 

The  cherished  seeds  sprang  to  a  sec- 
ond birth. 


And,  eloquent  once  more  with  love 
and  hope. 

Burst  into  bloom  the  purple  helio- 
trope, 


Embalmed    perhaps    with    sorrow's 

fiery  tears. 
Out  of  the  silence  of    a  thousand 

years 
It  answered  back  the  passion  of  the 

past 
With  the  pure  breath  of  perfect  peace 

at  last. 


O  pulseless  heart !  as  ages  pass,  sleep 

well! 
The  purple  flower  thy  secret  will  not 

tell. 
But  only  to  our  eager  quest  reply  — 
"  Love,  memory,  hope,  like  me  can 

never  die  !" 


Charles  Mackay. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  MOURNERS. 

A  LITTLE  child,  beneath  a  tree. 
Sat  and  chanted  cheerily 
A  little  song,  a  pleasant  song, 
Which  was,  —  she  sang  it  all   day 

long,  — 
"  When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms 

fall, 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all !  " 

There  passed  a  lady  by  the  way, 
Moaning  in  the  face  of  day: 
There  were  tears  upon  her  cheek. 
Grief  in  her  heart  too  great  to  speak ; 
Her  husband  died  but  yester-mom, 
And  left  her  in  the  world  forlorn. 

She  stopped  and  listened  to  the  child. 
That  look'd  to  Heaven,  and,  singing, 

smiled ; 
And  saw  not,  for  her  own  despair. 
Another  lady,  young  and  fair, 
Who,  also  passing,  stopped  to  hear 
The  infant's  anthem  ringing  clear. 


For  she,  but  few  sad  days  before, 
Had  lost  the  little  babe  she  bore ; 
And  grief  was  heavy  at  her  soul, 
As  that  sweet  memory  o'er  lier  stole. 
And  showed  how  bright  had  been  tlie 

past. 
The  present  drear  and  overcast. 

And  as  they  stood  beneath  the  tree, 
Listening,  soothed,  and  placidly, 
A  youth  came  by,  whose  sunken  eyes, 
Spake  of  a  load  of  miseries ; 
And  he,  aiTested  like  the  twain. 
Stopped  to  listen  to  the  strain. 

Death  had  bowed  the  youthful  head 
Of  his  bride  beloved,  his  bride  unwed : 
Her  maiTiage  robes  were  fitted  on, 
Her  fair  yoimg   face  with    blushes 

shone, 
WTien  the  Destroyer  smote  her  low. 
And  left  the  lover  to  his  woe. 

And  these  three  listened  to  the  song 
Silver-toned,  and  sweet,  and  strong, 


362 


MACK  AY. 


Whiich  that  child,  the  livelong  day, 

Chanted  to  itself  in  play: 

"  When  the  wind  blows,  the  blossoms 

fall, 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all." 

The  widow's  lips  impulsive  moved; 
The    mother's   grief,   though    unre- 

proved, 
Softened,  as  her  trembling  tongue 
Kepeated  what  the  infant  sung ; 
And  the  sad  lover,  with  a  start. 
Conned  it  over  to  his  heart. 

And  though  the  child  —  if  child  it 

were, 
And  not  a  seraph  sitting  there  — 
"Was  seen  no  more,   the  sorrowing 

three 
Went  on  their  way  resignedly. 
The  song  still  ringing  in  their  ears  — 
Was  it  music  of  the  spheres  ? 

Who  shall  tell  ?    They  did  not  know. 
But  in  the  midst  of  deepest  woe 
The  strain  recurred  when  sorrow  grew, 
To  warn  them,  and  console  them  too : 
"  When  the  wind  blows,  the  blossoms 

fall, 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all." 


CLE  ON  AND  I. 

Cleon  hath  ten  thousand  acres. 

Ne'er  a  one  have  I; 
Cleon  dwelleth  in  a  palace, 

In  a  cottage,  I ; 
Cleon  hath  a  dozen  fortimes. 

Not  a  penny,  I ; 
Yet  the  poorer  of  the  twain  is 

Cleon,  and  not  I. 


Cleon,  true,  possesseth  acres. 

But  the  landscape,  I; 
Half  the  charms  to  me  it  yieldeth 

Money  cannot  buy ; 
Cleon  harbors  sloth  and  dulness. 

Freshening  vigor,  I ; 
He  in  velvet,  I  in  fustian  — 

Ilicher  man  am  I. 


Cleon  is  a  slave  to  grandeur, 

Free  as  thought  am  I; 
Cleon  fees  a  score  of  doctors. 

Need  of  none  have  I ; 
Wealth-surrounded,  care-environed, 

Cleon  fears  to  die ; 
Death    may    come  —  he'll    find    me 
ready. 

Happier  man  am  I. 

Cleon  sees  no  charms  in  Nature, 

In  a  daisy,  I; 
Cleon  hears  no  anthems  ringing 

'Twixt  the  sea  and  sky; 
Nature  sings  to  me  forever, 

Earnest  listener,  I; 
State  for  state,  with  all  attendants  — 

Who  would  change  ?  —  Not  I. 


CLEAR   THE   WAY! 

Men  of  thought !  be  up  and  stirring, 

Night  and  day : 
Sow  the  seed  —  withdraw  the  cur- 
tain — 

Clear  the  way ! 
Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them. 

As  ye  may! 
There's  a  fount  about  to  stream. 
There's  a  light  about  to  beam, 
There's  a  warmth  about  to  glow. 
There's  a  floMer  about  to  blow; 
There's  a  midnight  blackness  chang- 
ing 

Into  gray; 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way ! 

Once  the  welcome  light  has  broken, 

Who  shall  say 
What  the  unimagined  glories 

Of  the  day  ? 
What  the  evil  that  shall  perish 

In  its  ray  ? 
Aid  the  dawning,  tongue  and  pen; 
Aid  it,  hopes  of  honest  men; 
Aid  it,  paper  —  aid  it,  type  — 
Aid  it,  for  the  hour  is  ripe, 
And  our  earnest  must  not  slacken 

Into  play. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way ! 


MACKAY, 


363 


Lo!  a  cloud's  about  to  vanish 

From  the  day ; 
And  a  brazen  wrong  to  crumble 

Into  clay. 
Lol  the  Right's  about  to  conquer, 

Clear  the  way ! 
With  the  Right,  shall  many  more 
Enter,  smiling,  at  the  door; 
With  the  giant  Wrong,  shall  fall 
Many  others,  great  and  small, 
That  for  ages  long  have  held  us 

For  their  prey. 
Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way ! 


THE  GOOD   TIME  COMING. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 
But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 

Of  the  good  time  coming. 
Cannon-balls  may  aid  the  truth. 

But  thought's  a  weapon  stronger; 
We'll  win  our  battle  by  its  aid;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword,  . 
And  Risrht,  not  Might,  shall  be  the 
lol-d 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Worth,  not  Birth,   shall  rule  man- 
kind, 

And  be  aclinowledged  stronger; 
The  proper  impulse  has  been  given ;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming : 
War,  in  all  men's  eyes,  shall  be 
A  monster  of  imiquity 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then. 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger; 
Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory's  sake ;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
Hateful  rivalries  of  creed 
Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 


In  the  good  time  coming. 
Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride, 

And  flourish  all  the  stronger ; 
And  Charity  shall  trim  her  lamp ;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
And  a  poor  man's  family 
Shall  not  be  liis  misery 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Every  cliild  shall  be  a  help. 

To  make  his  right  arm  stronger; 
The  happier  he,  the  more  he  has ;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer.  ^ 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming : 
Little  children  shall  not  toil. 
Under  or  above  the  soil. 

In  the  good  time  coming; 
But  shall  play  in  healthful  fields 

Till  limbs  and  mind  grow  stronger; 
And  every  one  shall  read  and  write ;  — ' 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
The  people  shall  be  temperate. 
And  shall  love  instead  of  hate. 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
They  shall  use,  and  not  abuse. 

And  make  all  virtue  stronger. 
The  reformation  has  begun ; 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 
Let  us  aid  it  all  we  can. 
Every  woman,  every  man. 

The  good  time  coming. 
Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given, 

Make  the  impulse  stronger; 
'Twill  be  strong  enough  one  day;  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE   WINDOW. 

Late  or  early,  home  returning, 
In  the  starlight  or  the  rain, 
I  beheld  that  lonely  candle 
Shining  from  his  window-pane. 


864 


MACKAY. 


Ever  o'er  his  tattered  curtain, 

Nightly  looking,  I  could  scan, 

Aye  inditing, 

Writing  —  writing. 

The  pale  figure  of  a  man ; 

Still  discern  behind  him  fall 

The  same  shadow  on  the  walL 

Far  beyond  the  murky  midnight, 
By  dim  burning  of  my  oil, 
Filling  aye  his  rapid  leaflets, 
I  have  watched  him  at  his  toil ; 
Watched  his  broad  and  seamy  fore- 
head, • 
Watched  liis  white  industrious  hand, 
Ever  passing 
And  repassing; 

Watched  and  strove  to  understand 
What  impelled  it  —  gold,  or  fame  — 
Bread,  or  bubble  of  a  name. 

Oft  I've  asked,  debating  vainly 
In  the  silence  of  my  mind. 
What  the  services  he  rendered 
To  his  country  or  his  kind ; 
Whether  tones  of  ancient  music, 
Or  the  sound  of  modern  gong, 
Wisdom  holy. 
Humors  lowly. 
Sermon,  essay,  novel,  song, 
Or  philosophy  sublime, 
Fill'd  the  measure  of  his  time. 

No  one  sought  him,  no  one  knew 

him, 
Undistinguished  was  his  name : 
Never  had  his  praise  been  uttered 
By  the  oracles  of  fame. 
Scanty  fare  and  decent  raiment, 
Humble  lodging,  and  a  fire  — 
These  he  sought  for, 
These  he  wrought  for. 
And  he  gainedhis  meek  aesire; 
Teaching  men  by  written  word  — 
Clinging  to  a  hope  deferred. 

So  he  lived.     At  last  I  missed  him; 
Still  might  evening  twilight  fall, 
But  no  taper  lit  his  lattice  — 
Lay  no  shadow  on  his  wall. 
In  the  winter  of  his  seasons, 
In  the  midnight  of  his  day, 
'Mid  his  writing, 
And  inditing. 


Death  hath  beckoned  him  away, 
Ere  the  sentence  he  had  planned 
Found  completion  at  his  hand. 

But  this  man  so  old  and  nameless 
Left  behind  him  projects  large. 
Schemes  of  progress  undeveloped, 
Worthy  of  a  nation's  charge; 
Noble  fancies  uncompleted. 
Germs  of  beauty  immatured, 
Only  needing 
Kindly  feeding 

To  have  flourished  and  endured ; 
Meet  reward  in  golden  store 
To  have  lived  for  evermore. 

Who  shall  tell  what  schemes  majestic 

Perish  in  the  active  brain  ? 

What  humanity  is  robbed  of, 

Ne'er  to  be  restored  again  ? 

What  we  lose,  because  we  honor 

Overmuch  the  mighty  dead. 

And  dispirit 

Living  merit. 

Heaping  scorn  upon  its  head  ? 

Or  perchance,  when  kinder  grown, 

Leaving  it  to  die  —  alone  ? 


O    YE   TEARS! 

0  YE  tears  I  O  ye  tears !  that  have  long 

refused  to  flow. 
Ye  are  welcome  to  my  heart  —  thaw- 
ing, thawing,  like  the  snow ; 

1  feel  the  hard  clod  soften,  and  the 

early  snowdrops  spring. 
And  the  healing  fountains  gush,  and 
the  wildernesses  sing. 

O  ye  tears  !  O  ye  tears !  I  am  thank- 
ful that  ye  run ; 

Though  ye  trickle  in  the  darkness,  ye 
shall  glitter  in  the  sun. 

The  rainbow  cannot  shine  if  the  rain 
refuse  to  fall, 

And  the  eyes  that  cannot  weep  are 
the  saddest  eyes  of  all. 

0  ye  tears !  O  ye  tears !  till  I  felt  you 

on  my  cheek. 

1  was  selfish  in  my  sorrow,  I  was  stub' 

born,  1  was  weak. 


MACKAV. 


365 


Ye  have  given  me  strength  to  conquer, 
and  I  stand  erect  and  free, 

And  know  that  I  am  human  by  the 
light  of  sympathy. 

O  ye  tears !  O  ye  tears !  ye  reUeve  me 

of  my  pain ; 
The  barren  rock  of  pride  has  been 

stricken  once  again: 
Like  the  rock  that  Moses  smote,  amid 

Horeb's  burning  sand, 
It  yields  the  flowing  water  to  make 

gladness  in  the  land. 

There  is  light  upon  my  path,  there  is 
sunshine  in  my  heart, 

And  the  leaf  and  fruit  of  life  shall 
not  utterly  depart; 

Ye  restore  to  me  the  freshness  and 
the  bloom  of  long  ago  — 

O  ye  tears !  happy  tears !  1  am  thank- 
fid  that  ye  flow ! 


A   Q  UES  TION  ANS  WERED. 

What  to  do  to  make  thy  fame 
Live  beyond  thee  in  the  tomb  ? 

And  thine  honorable  name 
Shine,   a    star,    through  history's 
gloom  ? 

Seize  the  Spirit  of  thy  Time, 
Take  the  measure  of  his  height. 

Look  into  his  eyes  sublime. 
And  imbue  thee  with  their  light. 

Know  his  words  ere  they  are  spoken, 
And  with  utterance  loud  and  clear, 

Finn,  persuasive,  and  unbroken. 
Breathe  them  in  the  people's  ear. 

Think  wiiate'er  the  Spirit  thinks. 
Feel  thyself  whate'er  he  feels, 

Drink  at  fountains  where  he  drinks, 
And  reveal  what  he  reveals. 

And  whate'er  thy  medium  be. 
Canvas,  stone,  or  printed  sheet. 

Fiction,  or  philosophy. 
Or  a  ballad  for  the  street ;  — 

Or,  perchance,  with  passion  fraught, 
Spoken     words,     like     lightnings 
thrown. 

Tell  the  ueople  all  thy  thought. 
And  the  world  shall  be  thine  own  I 


EXTRACT  FROM  "^  REVERIE  IN 

THE  grass:' 

Oh,  beautiful  green  grass !    Earth- 
covering  fair ! 
What  shall  be  sung  of  thee,  nor  bright, 

nor  rare. 
Nor  highly  thought  of  ?    Long  green 

grass  that  waves 
By  the  wayside,    over   the    ancient 

graves. 
Or  shoulders  of  the  mountain  loom- 
ing high,  [esty. 
Or  skulls  of  rocks,  bald  in  their  maj- 
Except  for  thee,  that  in  the  crevices 
Liv'st  on  the  nurture  of  the  sim  and 

breeze ; 
Adomer  of  the  nude  rude  breast  of 

hills. 
Mantle  of  meadows,  fringe  of  gush- 
ing rills. 
Humblest  of  all  the  humble,  thou 

shalt  be. 
If  to  none  else,  exalted  unto  me, 
And  for  a  time,  a   type  of   joy  on 

earth  — 
Joy  unobtrusive,  of  perennial  birth. 
Common  as  light  and  air,  and  warmth 

and  rain. 
And  all  the  daily  blessings  that  in  vain 
Woo  us  to  gratitude :  the  earliest  born 
Of  all  the  juicy  verdures  that  adorn 
The  fruitful  bosom  of  the  kindly  soil; 
Pleasant  to  eyes  that  ache  and  limbs 
that  toil. 

Lo!  as  I  muse,  I  see  the  bristling 
spears 

Of  thy  seed-bearing  stalks,  which 
some,  thy  peers,  [fro 

Lift  o'er  their  fellows,  nodding  to  and 

Their  lofty  foreheads  as  the  wild 
winds  blow. 

And  think  thy  swarming  multitudes 
a  host. 

Drawn  up  embattled  on  their  native 
coast, 

And  officered  for  war:— tho  spearmen 
free 

Raising  their  weapons,  and  the  mar- 
tial bee 

Bldwing  his  clarion,  while  some  pop- 
py tall 

Displays  the  blood-red  banner  over 
all. 


866 


MACK  AY. 


Pleased  with  tlie  thought,  I  nurse 
it  for  a  while, 

And  then  dismiss  it  with  a  faint  half- 
smile. 

And  next  I  fancy  thee  a  multitude, 

Moved  by  one  breath,  obedient  to  the 
mood 

Of  one  strong  thinker  —  the  resistless 
wind. 

That,  passing  o'er  thee,  bends  thee  to 
its  mind. 

See  how  thy  blades,  in  myriads  as 
they  grow. 

Turn  ever  eastward  as  the  west  winds 
blow  — 

Just  as  the  human  crowd  is  swayed 
and  bent. 

By  some  great  preacher,  madly  elo- 
quent, 

Who  moves  them  at  his  will,  and  with 
a  breath 

Gives  them  their  bias  both  in  life  and 
death. 

Or  by  some  wondrous  actor,  when  he 
draws 

All  eyes  and  hearts,  amid  a  hushed 
applause. 

Not  to  be  uttered,  lest  delight  be 
marred ; 

Or,  greater  still,  by  hymn  of  prophet- 
bard, 

Who  moulds  the  lazy  present  by  his 
rhyme. 

And  sings  the  glories  of  a  future  time. 


And  ye  are  happy,  green  leaves, 

every  one, 
Spread  in  your  countless  thousands 

to  the  sun ! 
Unlike  mankind,  no  solitary  blade 
Of  all  your  verdure  ever  disobeyed 
The  law  of  nature:  every  stalk  that 

lifts 
Its  head  above  the  mould,  enjoys  the 

gifts 
Of  liberal  heaven  —  the  rain,  the  dew, 

the  light ; 
And  points,  though  humbly,  to  the 

Infinite; 
And  every  leaf,  a  populous  world, 

maintains 
Invisible  nations  on  its  wide-stretched 

plains. 


So  great  is  littleness!  the  mind  at 

fault 
Betwixt  the  peopled  leaf  and  starry 

vault. 
Doubts  which  is  grandest,  and,  with 

holy  awe. 
Adores  the  God  who  made  them,  and 

whose  law 
Upholds  them  in  Eternity  or  Time, 
Greatest  and  least,  ineffably  sublime. 


TELL   ME,    YE   WINGED    WINDS. 

Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds. 

That  round  my  pathway  roar, 
Do  ye  not  know  some  spot 

Where  mortals  weep  no  more? 
Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell. 

Some  valley  in  the  west. 
Where,  free  from  toil  and  pain. 

The  weary  soul  may  rest  ? 
The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper 

low, 
And  sighed  for  pity  as  it  answered, 
"No." 

Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep,  y 

Whose  billows  round  me  play, 
Know'st  thou  some  favored  spot, 

Some  island  far  away, 
Where  weary  man  may  find 

The  bliss  for  which  he  sighs,  — 
Where  sorrow  never  lives, 

And  friendship  never  dies  ? 
The  loud  waves,  rolling  in  perpetual 

flow, 
Stopped  for  a  while,  and  sighed  to 
answer,  —  "No." 

And  thou,  serenest  moon. 

That,  with  such  lovely  face, 
Dost  look  upon  the  earth. 

Asleep  in  night's  embrace; 
Tell  me,  in  all  thy  round 

Hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot 
Where  miserable  man 

May  find  a  happier  lot  ? 
Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew 

in  woe. 
And  a  voice,  sweet  but  sad,  respond- 
ed,—"No." 


MARVELL—MASSEY. 


36*/ 


Tell  me,  my  secret  soul, 
Oh!  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 

Is  there  no  resting-place 
From  sorrow,  sin,  and  death  ? 

Is  there  no  happy  spot 
Where  mortals  may  be  blest, 


Where  grief  may  find  a  balm, 
And  weariness  a  rest  ? 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  best  boons 
to  mortals  given. 

Waved  their  bright  wings,  and  whis- 
pered, —  "  Yes,  ill  heaven." 


Andrew  Marvell. 


A  DROP   OF  DEW. 

See  how  the  orient  dew. 
Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 
Into  the  blowing  roses, 
(Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new 
For  the  clear  region  where  'twas  born) 
Round  in  itself  incloses. 
And  in  its  little  globe's  extent 
Frames,  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 
How  it  the  purple  flower  does  slight, 

Scarce  touching  where  it  lies ; 
But  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 
Shines  with  a  mournful  light. 
Like  its  own  tear. 
Because    so  long  divided  from  the 
sphere. 
Restless  it  rolls,  and  unsecure. 
Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure ; 
Till  the  warm  sun  pities  its  pain, 
And  to  the  skies  exhales  it  back  again. 

So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray, 
Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  day, 
Could  it  within  the  human  flower  be 


Remembering     still      its     formel 

height, 
Shuns  the  sweet  leaves  and  blos- 
soms green, 
And,  recollecting  its  own  light. 
Does,  in  its  pure  and  circling  thoughts, 

express 
The  greater  heaven  in  a  heaven  less. 
In  how  coy  a  figure  wound, 
Every  way  it  turns  away ; 
So  the  world  excluding  round. 
Yet  receiving  in  the  day. 
Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above ; 
Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 
How  loose  and  easy  hence  to  go ! 
How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend ! 
Moving  but  on  a  point  below, 
It  all  about  does  upward  bend. 
Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  dis- 
til. 
White  and  entire,  although  congealed 

and  chill  — 
Congealed  on  earth,  but  does,  dis- 
solving, i-un 
Into  the  glories  of  th'  almighty  sun. 


Gerald  Massey. 


JERUSALEM    THE     GOLDEN. 


Jerusalem  the  Golden! 

I  weary  for  one  gleam 
Of  all  thy  glory  folden 

In  distance  and  in  dream ! 
My  thoughts,  like  palms  in  exile. 

Climb  up  to  look  and  pray 
For  a  glimpse  of  thy  dear  country 

That  lies  so  far  away. 


Jerusalem  the  Golden! 

Methinks  each  flower  that  blows, 
And  every  bird  a-singing 

Of  thee,  some  secret  knows ; 
I  know  not  what  the  flowers 

Can  feel,  or  singers  see; 
But  all  these  summer  raptures 

Seem  prophecies  of  thee. 


368 


MASSEY. 


Jerusalem  the  Golden ! 

When  sunset's  in  the  w^st, 
It  seems  the  gate  of  glory, 

Thou  city  of  the  blest ! 
And  midnight's  starry  torches 

Through  intermediate  gloom 
Are  waving  with  our  welcome 

To  thy  eternal  home  I 

Jerusalem  the  Golden ! 

When  loftily  they  sing, 
O'er  pain  and  sorrow  olden 

Forever  triumphing ; 
Lowly  may  be  the  portal, 

And  dark  may  be  the  door. 
The  mansion  is  immortal  — 

God's  palace  for  his  poor! 

Jerusalem  the  Golden ! 

There  all  our  birds  that  flew  — 
Our  flowers  but  half  unfolden, 

Our  pearls  that  turned  to  dew, 
And  all  the  glad  life-music 

Now  heard  no  longer  here, 
Shall  come  again  to  greet  us 

As  we  are  drawing  near. 

Jerusalem  the  Golden! 

I  toil  on  day  by  day; 
Heart-sore  each  night  with  longing, 

I  stretch  my  hands  and  pray, 
That  mid  thy  leaves  of  healing 

My  soul  may  find  her  nest ; 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troub- 
ling, 

The  weary  are  at  rest ! 


THE  KINGLIEST   KINGS. 

Ho !  ye  who  in  the  noble  work 
Win  scorn,  as  flames  draw  air, 

And  in  the  way  where  lions  lurk 
God's  image  bravely  bear; 

Ho!  trouble-tried  and  torture  torn, 

The  kingliest  kings  are  crowned  with 
thorn. 

Life's  glory,  like  the  bow  in  heaven, 
Still  springeth  from  the  cloud ; 

And  soul   ne'er    soared    the    starry 
seven. 
But  pain's  fire-chariot  rode. 


They've  battled  best  who'  ve  boldest 

borne; 
The  kingliest  kings  are  crowned  with 

thorn. 

The  martyr's  fire-crown  on  the  brow 

Doth  into  glory  burn ; 
And    tears    that    from  Love's   torn 
heart  flow, 
To  pearls  of  spirit  turn. 
Our  dearest  hopes  in  pangs  are  born ; 
The  kingliest  kings  are  crowned  with 
thorn. 

As     beauty     in    death's     cerement 
shrouds. 
And  stars  bejewel  night, 
God's   splendors  live  in  dim  heart- 
clouds. 
And  suffering  worketh  might. 
The  mirkest  hour  is  mother  o'  morn ; 
The  kingliest  kings  are  crowned  with 
thorn. 


AND   THOU  HAST  STOLEN  A 
JE  WEL. 

And  thou  hast  stolen  a  jewel,  Death, 
Shall  light  thy  dark  up  like  a  star. 
A  beacon  kindling  from  afar 

Our  light  of  love,  and  fainting  faith. 

Through  tears  it  gleams  perpetually. 
And  glitters  through  the  thickest 

glooms. 
Till  the  eternal  morning  comes 

To  light  us  o'er  the  jasper  sea. 

With  our  best  branch  in  tendorest  leaf. 
We've  strewn  the  way  our  Lord 

doth  come ; 
And,  ready  for  the  harvest  home, 

His  reapers  bind  our  ripest  sheaf. 

Our  beautiful  bird  of  light  hath  fled  : 
Awhile  she  sat  with  folded  wings  — 
Sang  round  us  a  few  hoverings  — 

Then  straightway  into  glory  sped. 

And  white-winged  angels  nurture  her; 

With  heaven's  white  radiance  robed 
and  crowned, 

And  all  love's  purple  glory  round, 
She  summers  on  the  hills  of  myrrh. 


MCCARTHY. 


369 


Through  childhood's  morning-land, 
serene 
She  walked  betwixt  us  twain,  like 

love ; 
AVhile,  in  a  robe  of  light  above, 
Her  better  angel  walked  unseen,  — 

Till  life's  highway  broke  bleak  and 

wild ; 

Then,  lest  her  starry  garments  trail 

In  mire,  heart  bleed,  and  courage 

fail, 

Tlie  angel's  arms  caught  up  the  child. 

Her   wave    of   life   hath   backward 
rolled 
To    the    great    ocean;    on    whose 

shore 
We  wander  up  and  down,  to  store 
Some    treasures    of    the    times   of 
old:  — 


And  aye  we  seek  and  hunger  on 
For  precious  pearls  and  relics  rare, 
Strewn  on  the  sands  for  us  to  wear 

At  heart  for  love  of  her  that's  gone. 

O  weep  no  more !  there  yet  is  balm 
In  Gilead !    Love  doth  ever  shed 
Rich  healing  where  it  nestles  — 
spread 

O'er  desert  pillows  some  green  palm! 

Strange  glory  streams  through  life's 

wild  rents;  [death 

And    through    the    open    door  of 

We  see  the  heaven  that  beckoneth 

To  the  beloved  going  hence. 

God's  ichor  fills  the  hearts  that  bleed; 

The  best  fruit  loads  the  broken 
bough ;  plough. 

And  in  the  wounds  our  sufferings 
Immortal  love  sows  sovereign  seed. 


Denis  Florence  McCarthy. 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting ; 
Waiting  for  the  May. — 
Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles. 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn  bram- 
bles, 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 
Ah !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, — 
Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May, — 
Longing  to  escape  from  study, 
To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy, 
And  the  thousand  charms  belong- 
ing 
To  the  summer's  day. 
Ah!  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing. 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 
Sighing  for  the  May, — 
Sighing  for  their  sure  returning, 
When  "the  summer  beams  are  burn- 
ing, 


Hopes  and  flowers  that,  dead  or 
dying, 

All  the  winter  lay. 
Ah !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 

Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah !  my  heart  is  pained  with  throb- 
bing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May, — 
Throbbing  tor  the  seaside  billows. 
Or  the  water-wooing  willows ; 
Where,  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing. 

Glide  the  streams  away. 
Ah !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  throb- 
bing. 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  May : 
Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings ; 
Moonlit  evenings,   sunbriglit  morn- 
ings,— 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 

Life  still  ebbs  away; 
Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  May! 


370 


MICHEL. 


Nicholas  Michell. 


PERSIA. 

Persia!   time-honored    land!    who 

looks  on  thee 
A  desert,  yet  a  Paradise,  will  see, 
Vast    chains  of    hills  where  not  a 

shrub  appears. 
Wastes  where  the  dews  distil  their 

diamond  tears ; 
The  only  living  things  foul  birds  of 

prey. 
That  whet  their  beaks,  or  court  the 

solar  ray. 
And  wolves  that  fill  with  bowlings 

midnight's  vale, 
Turning  the  cheek  of  far-off  traveller 

pale ;  — 
Anon,    the    ravished    eye  delighted 

dwells 
On     chinar-groves      and      brightly- 

Avatered  dells. 
Blooming  where  man  and  art  have 

nothing  done. 
Pomegranates  hang  their  rich  fruit 

in  the  sun ; 
Grapes  turn  to  purple  many  a  rock's 

tall  brow, 
And  globes  of  gold  adorn  the  citron's 

bough ; 
Mid  rose-trees  hid,   or  perched  on 

some  high  palm. 
The  bulbul  sings  through  eve's  deli- 
cious calm; 
While  girt  by  planes,  or  washed  by 

cooling  streams, 
On  some  green  flat  the  stately  city 

gleams,  — 
'Tis  as  a  demon  there  had  cast  his 

frown, 
And  here  an  angel  breathed  a  bless- 
ing down ; 
As  if  in  nature  as  the  human  soul. 
The  god  of  darkness  spumed  heaven's 

bright  control. 
Good  struggling    hard    with    Evil's 

withering  spell, 
A  smiling  Eden  on  the  marge  of  hell. 
Ir//mortal  clime!  where  Zoroaster 

sprung. 
And  light  on  Persia's  earlier  history 

flung; 


Let  charity  condemn  not  Iran's  sage, 

Who  taught,  reformed,  and  human- 
ized his  age. 

In  him  one  great  as  Mecca's  prophet, 
see, 

But  oh,  more  gentle,  wise,  and  pure 
than  he. 


ALEXANDER  AT  PERSEPOLIS. 

Here,  too,  came  one  who  bartered 
all  for  power, 

The  dread  Napoleon  of  earth's 
younger  hour: 

Ay,  the  same  spot  we  calmly  muse 
on  now 

Saw  chiefs  and  kings  to  Alexander 
bow; 

A  conqueror, — yes,  men  praise  and 
bend  the  knee ; 

Who  spreads  most  woe,  the  greatest 
hero  he. 

But  lo !  that  night  on  fancy  casts  its 
gloom,  [doom. 

That  fearful  night  of    revelry  and 

When  perished  all  things  costly, 
bright,  and  fair. 

And  left,  as  now,  these  pillars  stern 
and  bare. 

The  feast  is  spread ;  around  the  mon- 
arch shine 

Those  earth-born  pomps  weak  mor- 
tals deem  divine ; 

High  sits  he  on  his  throne  of  gems 
and  gold. 

Bright-starred  and  purple  robes  his 
limbs  enfold ; 

No  crown  adorns  his  brow,  for  fes- 
tive hours 

Have  wreathed  his  head  with  Bac- 
chus' bloomy  flowers ; 

Lamps,  hung  in  silver  chains,  a  soft- 
ened glow 

Shed  on  the  warrior  chiefs  that  group 
below. 

There  prince  and  noble  round  the 
board  are  met, 

Who  fought  those  fights  embalmed 
in  history  yet ; 


MICHELL, 


371 


But  thoughts  of  slaughter  past,  and 
blood-stained  fields, 

Mar  not  the  joys  that  gorgeous  ban- 
quet yields ; 

Sparkles  in  cups  of  gold  rich  Cyprian 
wine, 

Melts  the  Greek  fig,  the  grapes  of 
Ora  shine ; 

Pears  from  fair  Bactria  vie  with  Ker- 
man's  peach. 

And  fruit  from  climes  e'en  Greeks 
have  failed  to  reach  — 

Hot  Indian  Isles,  to  Scythia's  moun- 
tain snows,  — 

Each  luscious  orb  on  plates  of  crystal 
glows. 

Hark !  in  the  gilded  gallery,  flute  and 
lyre ! 

Strains  soft  as  sighs  of  streaming 
love  respire; 

Then  harp  and  sackbut  bolder  notes 
ring  out. 

Like  victory's  paean  o'er  some  army's 
rout. 

And  thus  they  revel ;  mirth  and  joy 
control 

The  sterner  thoughts,  the  high  as- 
piring soul ; 

And  e'en  the  slaves,  in  sumptuous 
garments  dressed. 

Forget  their  toils  to  see  their  lords 
so  blessed. 


But  what  young  beauty  leans  be- 
side the  king. 

With  form  so  graceful,  air  so  lan- 
guishing ? 

While  other  maids  are  glittering  down 
that  hall, 

A  moon  mid  earth's  sw^eet  stars,  she 
dims  them  all. 

Her  mask  is  off,  unveiled  her  radiant 
head, 

A  lovelier  veil  those  flower-bound 
tresses  spread ; 

A  spangled  zone  her  Grecian  robe 
confines. 

Bright  on  her  breast  a  costly  diamond 
shines. 

But  oh,  more  bright,  that  eye's  en- 
trancing ray 

Melts  where  it  falls,  and  steals  the 
soul  away ! 


Who  looks  must  look  again,  and 
sighing  own 

Earth  boasts,  than  tyrant  Love's,  no 
mightier  throne: 

Woman  was  born  to  vanquish, — he, 
the  brave. 

The  nation-trampler,  bowed,  her 
veriest  slave; 

Yes,  beauteous  Thais,  with  Love's 
flag  unfurled, 

Conquered  the  blood-stained  con- 
queror of  the  world ! 


THE   PARADISE   OF  CABUL. 

Oh,  who  Cabul's  sweet  region  may 

behold, 
When  spring  laughs  out,  or  autumn 

sows  her  gold, 
The    meadows,     orchards,     streams 

that  glide  in  light. 
Nor  deem  lost  Irem  charms  again  his 

sight; 
That     wondrous     garden    rivalling 

Eden's  bloom. 
Too  blessed  for  man  to  view^,  this  side 

the  tomb  ? 
Flowers  here,   of    every  scent    and 

form  and  dye. 
Lift  their  bright  heads,  and  laugh 

upon  the  sky. 
From    the  tall  tulip  with  her  rich 

streaked  bell. 
Where  throned  in  state.  Queen  Mab 

is  proud  to  dwell, 
To  lowly  wind-flowers  gaudier  plants 

eclipse,  |lips. 

And  pensile  harebells  with  their  dewy 
There  turns  the  heliotrope  to  court 

the  sun, 
And  up  green  stalks  the  stariy  jas- 
mines run : 
The  hyacinth  in  tender  pink  outvies 
Beauty's    soft    cheek,    and    violets 

match  her  eyes ; 
Sweet  breathe  the  henna  flowers  that 

harem  girls 
So  love  to  twine  among  their  glossy 

curls ; 
And  here  the  purple  pansy  springs  to 

birth, 
Like  some  gay  insect  rising  from  the 

earth. 


872 


MWKLE. 


One  sheet  of  bloom  the  level  green- 
sward yields, 

And  simple  daisies  speak  of  England's 
fields ; 

Drawn  by  sweet  odor's  spell,  in  hum- 
ming glee, 

Flits  round  the  gloomy  stock,  the  rob- 
ber-bee. 

While  to  the  gorgeous  musk-rose,  all 
night  long, 

The  love-sick  bulbul  pours  his  melt- 
ing song; 

Then,  too,  the  fruits  through  months 
that  hang  and  glow. 

Tempting  as  those  which  wrought 
our  mother's  woe. 

Soft  shines  the  mango  on  its  stem  so 
tall. 

Rich  gleams  beneath,  the  melon's 
golden  ball ; 

How  feasts  the  eye  upon  the  bell- 
shaped  pear ! 

Bright  cherries  look  like  corals  strung 
in  air; 

The  purple  plum,  the  grape  the  hand 
may  reach, 


Vie   with    the  downy-skinned    and 

blushing  i^each; 
Though  small,  its  place  the  luscious 

strawberry  claims. 
Mid  snowy  flowers  the  radiant  orange 

flames ; 
To  quench    the    thirst    the    cooling 

guava  see, 
A.nd  ripe  pomegranates   melting  on 

the  tree. 
And    here,   too,   England's  favorite 

fruit  is  seen. 
The    red-cheeked    apple,   veiled    by 

leaves  of  green : 
Ah!  at  the  sight,  sweet  thoughts  of 

home  awake. 
And  foreign  lands  are  welcomed  for 

its  sake. 
Thrice  genial    clime!    O    favored 

sweet  Cabul ! 
Well  art  thou  named  the  blessed,  the 

beautiful ! 
With  snow-peaked  hills  around  thee, 

—  guarding  arms ! 
Ah !  woutd  thy  sons  were  worthy  of 

thy  charms ! 


William  Julius  Mickle. 


THE  SAILOR'S    WIFE. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark  ? 

Ye  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel ; 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Colin' s  at  the  door  ? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay. 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop' s-satin  gown; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 

That  Colin' s  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on 

My  stockin's  pearly  blue; 


It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 
For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak'  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat; 
And  mak'  their  shoon  as  black  as 
slaes. 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa'. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop 
Been  fed  this  month  and  mair; 

Mak'   haste  and  thraw  their  necks 
about. 
That  Colin  weel  may  fare ; 

And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 
Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 


MILLER. 


373 


For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 
When  he  was  far  awa'  ? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his 
speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair,  — 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet! 


*If  Colin's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave : 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave: 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought. 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 


Abraham  Perry  Miller. 


[From  Consolation.'] 
REFUGE  FROM  DOUBT. 

0  LOVING    God    of    Nature!    who 

through  all 
Hast  never  yet    betrayed    me  to  a 

fall,  — 
While  following  creeds  of  men  I  went 

astray. 
And  in  distressing  mazes  lost  my  way ; 
But  turning  back  to  Thee,  I  found 

Thee  tiaie. 
And   sweet    as  woman's    love,   and 

fresh  as  dew,  — 
Henceforth  on  Thee,  and  Thee  alone 

I  rest, 
Nor  warring  sects  shall  tear  me  from 

Thy  breast. 
While  others  doubt  and  wrangle  o'er 

their  creeds, 

1  rest  in  Thee  and  satisfy  my  needs. 


[From  Consolation.'] 
TURN  TO   THE  HE L  FEB. 

As  when  a  little  child  returned  from 

play, 
Finds  the  door  closed  and  latched 

across  its  way. 
Against  the  door,  with  infant  push 

and  strain. 
It  gathers  all  its  strength  and  strives 

in  vain! 
Unseen,  within,  a  loving  father  stands 
And  lifts  the  iron  latch  with  easy 

hands ; 


Then,  as  he  lightly  draws  the  door 

aside, 
He  hides  behind  it,  while  with  baby 

pride,  — 
And  face  aglow,  in  struts  the  little  one, 
Flushed  and  rejoiced  to  think  what 

it  has  done,  — 
So,  when  men  find,  across  life's  rug- 
ged way. 
Strong  doors  of  trouble  barred  from 

day  to  day. 
And  strive  with  all  their  power  of 

knees  and  hands. 
Unseen  within  the  heavenly  Father 

stands, 
And  lifts  each  iron  latch,  while  men 

pass  through. 
Flushed  and  rejoiced  to  think  what 

they  can  do ! 

Turn  to  the  Helper,  unto  whom  thou 
art 

More  near  and  dear  than  to  thy 
mother's  heart, — 

Who  is  more  near  to  thee  than  is  the 
blood 

That  warms  thy  bosom  with  its  pur- 
ple flood  — 

Who  by  a  word  can  change  the  men- 
tal state 

And  make  a  burden  light,  however 
great ! 

O  loving  Power!  that,  dwelling  deep 
within. 

Consoles  our  spirits  in  their  woe  and 
sin, — 


374 


MILTON. 


When  days  were  dark  and  all  the 
world  went  wrong, 

Nor  any  heart  was  left  for  prayer  and 
song,  — 

When  bitter  memory,  o'er  and  o'er 
again. 

Revolved  the  wrongs  endured  from 
fellow-men; 

And  showed  how  hopes  decayed  and 
bore  no  fruit. 

And  He  who  placed  us  here  was  deaf 
and  mute !  — 

If  then  we  turned  on  God  in  angry 
wise, 

And  scorned  his  dealings  with  re- 
proachful eyes 

Questioned  his  goodness,  and  in  fool- 
ish wrath. 

Called  hope  a  lie  and  ridiculed  our 
faith,  — 

Did  we  not  find,  in  such  an  evil  hour. 

That  far  within  us  dwelt  this  loving 
Power  ? 

No  wrathful  God  within,  to  smite  us 
down,  [frown; 

Or  turn  his  face  away  with  angry 

But  in  the  bitter  heart,  a  smile  began, 

Grew,  all  at  once,  within,  and  up- 
ward ran. 

Broke  out  upon  the  face  —  and,  for 
awhile, 

Despite  all  bitterness,  we  had  to 
smile ! 

Because  God's  spirit  that  within  us 
lay,  ■  [away! 

Simply  rose  up,  and  smiled  our  wrath 


This  love  endures  through  all  things, 

without  end. 
And  every  soul  has  one  Almighty 

Friend, 
Whose  angels  watch  and  tend  it  from 

its  birth. 
And  heaven  becomes  the  servant  of 

the  earth !  [move 

Whate'er  befall,  our  spirits  live  and 
In  one  vast  ocean  of  Eternal  Love ! 


{From  Consolation.'] 
KEEP  FAITH  IN  LOVE. 

Keep  faith  in  Love,  the  cure  of  every 

curse  — 
The   strange,   sweet  wonder  of  the 

universe ! 
God  loves   a  lover,  and  while  time 

shall  roll, 
This   wonder.  Love,   shall  save  the 

human  soul. 
Love  is  the  heart's  condition:  youth 

and  age 
Alike  are  subject  to  its  tender  rage : 
Age  crowns  the  head  with  venerable 

snow. 
But  Life  and  Love  forever  mated  go; 
Along  life's  far   frontier,   the  aged 

move. 
One  foot  beyond,  and  nothing  left 

but  Love ! 
And  when  the  soul  its  mortal  fears 

resigns,  [shines ! 

The  perfect  world  of  love  around  it 


John   Milton. 


ON  TIME. 

Fly,  envious  Time,  till  thou  run  out 
thy  race,  [hours, 

Call    on    the    lazy    leaden-stepping 

Whose  speed  is  but  the  heavy  plum- 
met's pace; 

And  glut  thyself  with  what  thy  womb 
devours. 

Which  is  no  more  than  what  is  false 
and  vain. 


And  merely  mortal  dross; 

So  little  is  our  loss. 

So  little  is  thy  gain. 

For  when  as  each  thing  bad  thou 
hast  entombed, 

And  last  of  all  thy  greedy,  self  con- 
sumed, 

Then  long  Eternity  shall  greet  our 
bliss 

.With  an  individual  kiss; 

And  Joy  shall  overtake  us  as  a  flood, 


MILTON. 


375 


When  every  thing  that  is  sincerely 

good 
And  perfectly  divine, 
With  truth,  and  peace,  and  love,  shall 

ever  shine 
About  the  supreme  throne 
Of  him,  to  whose  happy-making" sight 

alone 
When  once  our  heavenly-guided  soul 

shall  climb, 
Then,  all  this  earthy  grossness  quit. 
Attired  with  stars,  we  shall  forever 

sit, 
Triumphing  over  Death,  and  Chance, 

and  thee,  O  Time. 


U  ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight 
born. 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 
'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks, 
and  sights  unholy! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell. 
Where  brooding  darkness  spreads 
his  jealous  wings. 
And  the  night  raven  sings; 
There  under  ebon  shades  and  low- 
browed rocks. 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In   dark  Cimmerian    desert    ever 
dwell. 
But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  Heaven  ycleped  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 
With  two  sister  Graces  more 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sages  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the 

spring. 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  on^e  a-Maying, 
There  on  beds  of  violets  blue. 
And  fresh-blown    roses    washed    in 

dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 
Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with 

thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 


Quips  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek. 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek. 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides, 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe. 
And  in  thy   right    hand   lead  with 

thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due. 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee. 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night. 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin. 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before: 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and 

horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill. 
Through    the    high  wood    echoing 

shrill : 
Some  time  walking,  not  unseen. 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state. 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light. 
The    clouds     in    thousand    liveries 

dight; 
While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe. 
And  the  niower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new 

pleasures 
Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  meas- 
ures; 
Russet  lawns  and  fallows  gray. 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray. 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest, 


376 


MIL  TO  K 


Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide. 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  liigh  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 
Hard  by,  a  cottage-chimney  smokes. 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks. 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met. 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes. 
Which     the     neat-handed     Phyllis 

dresses : 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower,  she 

leaves. 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes,  Avith  secure  delight. 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round. 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid 
Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to 

play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday. 
Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail ; 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 
How  Fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat; 
She  was   pinched    and    pulled,   she 

said. 
And  he  by  friar's  lanthom  led; 
Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of 

morn. 
His  shadowy  flail  had  threshed  the 

corn. 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end ; 
Then    lies    him    down    the     lubber 

fiend, 
And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's 

length. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings. 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done    the  tales,   to  bed  they 

creep, 
By    whispering    winds    soon    lulled 

asleep. 
Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 


Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons 

bold 
In   weeds  of    peace    high  triumphs 

hold. 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright 

eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  com- 
mend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry. 
With  masque  and  antique  pageantry, 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream. 
On  summer  eves,  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 
Or    sweetest    Shakespeare,    Fancy's 

child. 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  inmiortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  melting  soul  may  pierce. 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out. 
With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cun- 
ning. 
The  melting   voice    through    mazes 

running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his 

head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the 

ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  1  mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys, 

The  brood  of  folly,  Vithout  father 

bred! 
How  little  you  bestead. 
Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  youi 

toys! 
Dv.ell  in  some  idle  brain, 


MILTON. 


377 


And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes 

possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless. 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the 

sunbeams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 
Tlie  fickle  pensionei-s  of  Morpheus' 

train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and 

holy ! 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's 

hue: 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might    be- 
seem. 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen,  that 

strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers 

offended : 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended ; 
Thee  bright-haired  Yesta  long  of  yore 
To  solitaiy  Saturn  bore; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 
Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure. 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  with  majestic  train. 
And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn, 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step  and  musing  gait. 
And    looks    commercing    with    the 

skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes: 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast. 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast; 
And  join  with  thee  calm  peace  and 

quiet, 
Sparc  Fast,  that  oft  with  Gods  doth 

diet. 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing; 


And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleas* 

ure; 
But  first  and  chiefest  with  thee  bring, 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne. 
The  cherub  Contemplation ; 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 
'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 
In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight. 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia    checks    her  dragon 

yoke. 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak; 
Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of 

folly, 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 
Thee,     chantress,     oft     the     woods 

among, 
I  woo  to  hear  thy  even -song; 
And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 
To  behokf  the  wandering  moon, 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heavens'  wide  pathless 

way; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed. 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore. 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar. 
Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 
Some  still,  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the 

room 
Teacli  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom; 
Far  froni  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm. 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  horn- 
Be  seen  on  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 
With    thrice-great   Hermes,    or  un- 

sphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds,  or  what  vast  regions 

hold  [sook 

The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  for- 
Her  mansion  in  this  itleshly  nook; 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 


378 


MILTON. 


Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine, 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age. 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  virgin!  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musseus  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string. 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek. 
And  made  hell  grant  what  love  did 

seek; 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and 

glass; 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride; 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung; 
Of  forests  and  enchantments  drear. 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the 

ear. 
Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale 

career, 
'Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  tricked  and  frounced  as  she  was 

wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt. 
But  kerchiefed  in  a  comely  cloud , 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still. 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 
With   minute    drops    from    off    the 

eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves. 
And  shadows    brown,    that    Sylvan 

loves, 
Of  pine  or  monumental  oak, 
Where  the  rude    axe  with    heaved 

stroke 
Was  never    heard,   the  Nymphs  to 

daunt, 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed 

haunt. 


There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look. 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye. 
While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh. 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 
And  the  waters  murmuring, 
AVith  such  consort  as  they  keep. 
Entice  the  dewy-feathered  sleep : 
And    let    some    strange    mysterious 

dream 
Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  displayed. 
Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid : 
And  as  I  wake,  sWeet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath. 
Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 
Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowed  roof. 
With  antic  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow, 
To  the  full-voiced  choir  below. 
In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear. 
As    may    with    sweetness,    through 

mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies. 
And  bring  all   heaven  before  mine 

eyes. 
And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


SONG   ON  MA  Y  MORNING. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's 

harbinger. 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and 

leads  with  her 
The    flowery    May,   who    from    her 

green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,   and   the    pale 

primrose. 


MILTON. 


379 


Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  in- 
spire 

Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire ; 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dress- 
ing, 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  bless- 
ing. 

Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early 
song, 

And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee 
long. 


stanzas  fbom  "hymn  on  the 
nativity:' 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  man- 
ger lies; 
Nature  in  awe  to  Him 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim. 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympa- 
thize: 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty 
paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 
To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  inno- 
cent snow, 
And  on  her  naked  shame. 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame. 
The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to 
throw, 
Confounded  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul 
defonnities. 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  dovm  the  meek-eyed  Peace ; 
She,   crowned  with  olives    green, 

came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere 
His  ready  harbinger. 
With    turtle    wing    the    amorous 

clouds  dividing. 
And,  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand. 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through 

sea  and  land. 

N"o  war,  or  battle's  sound. 
Was  heard  the  world  around: 


The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high 
up  hun^. 
The  hooked  chariot  stood. 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood, 
The    trumpet    spake    not    to  the 
armed  throng. 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sover- 
eign Lord  was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night. 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth 

began : 
The  winds  with  wonder  whist 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 
Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild 

ocean. 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave. 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on 

the  charmed  wave. 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is 

spent 
Ere    half  my  days,   in  this  dark 

world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death 

to  hide, 
Lodged   with  me  useless,   though 

my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and 

present 
My  true  accoimt,  lest  he  returning 

chide ; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light 

denied?" 
I  fondly  ask :  but  Patience,  to  pre- 
vent 
That   murmur,   soon  replies,  "God 

doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  owti  gifts; 

who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him 

best:  his  state 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding 

speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  with- 
out rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and 

wait." 


180 


MILTON. 


ON  REACHING   TWENTY-THREE. 

How  soon    hath    Time,   the  subtle 

thief  of  youth, 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and- 

twentieth  year ! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full 

career. 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blos- 
som sheweth. 
Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive 

the  truth. 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so 

near, 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less 

appear, 
That    some    more    timely -happy 

spirits  indu'th. 
Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or 

slow. 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure 

even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or 

high. 
Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and 

the  will  of  Heaven ; 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-master's 

eye. 


TO  A   VIRTUOUS    YOUNG  LADY. 

Lady,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest 

youth 
Wisely    hast  shunned   the    broad 

way  and  the  green, 
And  with  those  few  art  eminently 

seen, 
That  labor  up  the  hill  of  heavenly 

truth. 
The  better  part  with  Mary  and  with 

Ruth 
Chosen  thou  hast;  and  they  that 

overween. 
And  at  thy  growing  virtues  fret 

their  spleen, 
Xo  anger  find  in  thee,  but  pity  and 

ruth. 
Thy  care  is  fixed,  and  zealously  at- 
tends 
To  fill  thy  odorous  lamp  with  deeds 

of  light, 


And  hope  that  reaps  not  shame. 

Therefore  be  sure 
Thou,  when  the  bridegroom  with  his 

feastful  friends 
Passes  to  bliss  at  the  mid-hour  of 

night. 
Hast  gained  thy  entrance,  virgin 

wise  and  pure. 


[From  Paradise  Lost.] 
THE  BOWER   OF  ADAM  AND  EVE.  ■ 

The  roof 
Of  thickest  covert  was  inwoven  shade. 
Laurel  and  myrtle,  and  what  higher 

grew 
Of  firm  and  fragrant  leaf:  on  either 

side 
Acanthus,  and  each  odorous  bushy 

shrub 
Fenced  up  the  yerdant  wall;  each 

beauteous  flower. 
Iris  all  hues,  roses,  and  jessamine 
Reared  high  their  flourished  heads 

between,  and  wrought 
Mosaic :  under  foot  the  violet. 
Crocus,  and  hyacinth,' with  rich  inlay 
Broidered  the  ground,  more  colored 

than  with  stone 
Of  costliest  emblem.     Other  creature 

here. 
Beast,   bird,  insect,  or  worm,  durst 

enter  none  : 
Such  was  their    awe    of    man.     In 

shadier  bower 
More  sacred  and  sequestered,  though 

but  feigned, 
Pan  or  Sylvanus  never    slept,    nor 

nymph 
Nor  Faunus  haunted.     Here,  in  close 

recess. 
With   flowers,   garlands,  and  sweet- 
smelling  herbs. 
Espoused  Eve  decked  first  her  nuptial 

bed. 
And  heavenly  choirs  the  Hymenaean 

sung. 
What  day  the  genial  angel  to  our  sire 
Brought  her  in  naked  beauty  more 

adorned. 
More  lovely  than  Pandora,  whom  the 

gods 


MOIR. 


381 


Endowed  with  all  their  gifts:  and  oh! 
too  like 

In  sad  event,  when  to  the  unwiser  son 

Of  Japhet  brought  by  Hermes,  she 
ensnared 

Mankind  with  her  fair  looks,  to  be 
avenged 

On  him  who  had  stole  Jove's  authen- 
tic fire. 


[From  Paradise  Lost.'] 
APOSTROPHE  TO  LIGHT. 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven 
first-born. 

Or  of  the  Eternal,  co-eternal  beam. 

May  1  express  thee  unblamed  ?  since 
God  is  Light, 

And  never  but  in  unapproached 
light 

Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in 
thee,  [create. 

Bright  ertluence  of  bright  essence  in- 

Or  hearest  thou  rather,  pure  ethereal 
stream, 

Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  ?  Be- 
fore the  sun, 

Before  the  heavens  thou  wert,  and  at 
the  voice  [vest 

Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  in- 

The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and 
deep. 

Won  from  the  void  and  formless  in- 
finite. 

Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing. 

Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though 
long  detained 


In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in 
my  flight 

Through  utter  and  through  middle 
darkness  borne 

With  other  notes  tlian,  to  the  Orphe- 
an lyre, 

I  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  night, 

Taught  by  the  heavenly  Muse  to  ven- 
tuie  down 

The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  re- 
ascend. 

Though  hard  and  rare :  thee  I  revisit 
safe. 

And  feel  thy  sovereign  vital  lamp: 
but  thou 

Revisitest  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in 
vain 

To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find 
no  dawn ; 

So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched 
their  orbs. 

Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.  Yet  not 
the  more 

Cease  I  to  wander  where  the  Muses 
haunt 

Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sun- 
ny hill, 

Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song; 
but  chief 

Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks 
beneath. 

That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and 
warbling  flow, 

Nightly  I  visit :  nor  sometimes  forget 

Those  other  two  equalled  with  me  in 
fate,  [nown, 

So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  re- 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Mieonides. 


David  Macbeth  Moir. 


STANZAS  FROM  "CASA   IFAPPY."  * 

Thy  bright  brief  day  knew  no  de- 
cline— 
'T  was  cloudless  joy; 
Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine. 

Beloved  boy!  [gay; 

This    morn  beheld  thee   blithe  and 

That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay : 

And  ere  a  third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 

Casa  Wappy !  ^ 

*  The  pet  name 


Gem  of  our  heart,  our  household  pride. 

Earth's  undefiled. 
Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst 
not  died. 
Our  dear,  sweet  child ! 
Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate's  decree; 
Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  shouM 

see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 

Casa  Wappy! 
of  Moir's  son. 


882 


MONTGOMERY. 


Methinks    thou    smil'st    before    me 
now, 
With  glance  of  stealth ; 
The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full 
brow 
In  buoyant  health ; 
I  see  thine  eyes'  deep  violet  light, 
Thy     dimpled    cheek     carnationed 

bright, 
Thy  clasping    arms    so    round    and 
white, 

Casa  Wappy! 

The  nursery  shows  thy  pictured  wall, 

Thy  bat,  thy  bow, 
Thy    cloak    and    bonnet,   club  and 
ball. 
But  where  art  thou  ? 
A  corner  holds  thine  empty  chair ; 
Thy  playthings,  idly  scattered  there. 
But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Even  to  the  last,  thy  every  word  — 

To  glad  —  to  grieve  — 
Was  sweet  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 

On  summer's  eve; 
In  outward  beauty  undecayed. 
Death  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade. 
And,   like  the  rainbow,   thou  didst 
fade, 

Casa  Wappy! 

We   mourn   for  thee,  when   blind, 
blank  night 
The  chamber  fills; 
We  pine  for  thee,  when  morn's  first 
light 
Reddens  the  hills ; 


The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea. 
All  —  to  the  wall-flower  and  wild' 

pea  — 
Are    changed;    we    saw   the   world 

through  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

And  though,  perchance,  a  smile  may 

gleam 
Of  casual  mirth, 
It  doth  not  own,  whate'er  may  seem, 

An  inward  birth; 
We  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair; — 
We    miss    thee     at    thine    evening 

prayer : 
All  day  we  miss  thee  —  everywhere — 

Casa  Wappy! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst 
go, 
In  life's  spring  bloom, 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below — 

The  silent  tomb. 
But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 
The  cuckoo,  and  the  busy  bee. 
Return  —  but  with  them  bring  not 
thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 


Farewell  then  —  for    a  while  fare- 
well— 
Pride  of  my  heart! 
It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell. 

Thus  torn  apart. 
Time's  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee; 
And,  dark  howe'er  life's  night  may 

be. 
Beyond  the  grave  I'll  meet  with  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 


James  Montgomery. 


LOVE  OF  COUNTRY  AND  OF 
HOME. 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the 
pride, 
Beloved  by  heaven,  o'er  all  the  world 
beside ; 


Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener 

light, 
And  milder  moons   emparadise  the 

night : 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth, 
^ime-tutored  age    and    love-exalted 

youth : 


MONTOOMERY. 


383 


The  wandering   mariner,  whose  eye 

explores 
The  wealthiest   isles,  the   most   en- 
chanting shores, 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and 

fair, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air; 
In  eveiy  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 
Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles 

to  that  pole ; 
For  in  this  land  of  heaven's  peculiar 

grace, 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race. 
There  'is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely 

blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the 

rest: 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts 

aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and 

pride. 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly 

blend 
The    sire,    the     son,  the    husband, 

father,  friend: 
Here    woman    reigns;   the    mother, 

daughter,  wife. 
Strews  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow 

way  of  life ; 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful 

eye, 
An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces 

lie; 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties 

meet. 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her 

feet. 
*'  Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of 

earth  be  found  ?  " 
Art  thou  a  man  ?  —  a  patriot  ?  —  look 

around ; 
Oh,  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  foot- 
steps roam. 
That  land  thy  country,  and  that 

spot  THY  home!" 


PRA  YER. 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire 

Uttered  or  unexpressed ; 
The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 

That  trembles  in  tiie  breast. 


Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh 

The  falling  of  a  tear; 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

That  infant  lips  can  try ; 
Prayer    the    sublimest    strains    that 
reach 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath. 
The  Christian's  native  air; 

His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death ; 
He  enters  heaven  by  prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice 
Keturning  from  his  ways ; 

While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice, 
And  say,  "  Behold,  he  prays!" 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one. 
In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind. 

When  with  the  Father  and  his  Son 
Their  fellowship  they  find. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  on  earth  alone ; 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads ; 
And  Jesus,  on  the  eternal  throne, 

For  sinners  intercedes. 

O  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 
The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way, 

The   path   of   prayer  Thyself    hath 
trod ; 
Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray ! 


THE  COMMON  LOT, 

Once,  in  tlie  flight  of  ages  past. 
There  lived  a  man ;  and  who  was 
he? 

Mortal!  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
That  man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 
Tlie  land    in  which  he  died  un- 
known : 
His    name    has    perished    from  the 
earth, 
Tliis  truth  survives  alone  : 


384 


MONTGOMERY. 


That  joy,  and  grief,  and  hope,  and 
fear. 

Alternate  triumphed  in  his  breast; 
His  bliss  and  wo  —  a  smile,  a  tear! 

Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid 
limb. 

The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall ; 
We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him, 

For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

He  suffered  —  but  his  pangs  are  o'er; 

Enjoyed  —  but  his  delights  are  fled; 
Had  friends  —  his  friends  are  now  no 
more; 

And  foes  —  his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved  —  but  whom  he  loved  the 
grave 
Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb : 
Oh,  she  was  fair!  but  naught  could 
save 
Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  : 
Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee ; 

He  was  —  whatever  thou  hast  been ; 
He  is  —  what  thou  shall  be. 

The  rolling  seasons  —  day  and  night, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  eaith  and 
main, 

Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light, 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his 
eye  [threw. 

That  once  their  shades  and  glory 
Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 

No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race. 
Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began. 

Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 
Than  this — there  lived  a  man! 


ASPIRATIONS  OF   YOUTH. 

Higher,  higher  will  we  climb. 
Up  to  the  mount  of  glory. 

That  our  names  may  live  through 
time 
In  om-  country's  story: 


Happy  when  her  welfare  calls, 
He  who  conquers,  he  who  falls. 

Deeper,  deeper,  let  us  toil 
In  the  mines  of  knowledge : 

Nature's  wealth  and  learning's  spoii 
Win  from  school  and  college ; 

Delve  we  there  for  richer  gems 

Than  the  stars  of  diadems. 

Onward,  onward  may  we  press 
Through  the  path  of  duty; 

Virtue  is  true  happiness. 
Excellence,  true  beauty. 

Minds  are  of  celestial  birth ; 

Make  we  then  a  heaven  of  earth. 

Closer,  closer  let  us  knit 
Hearts  and  hands  together, 

Where  our  fireside  comforts  sit 
In  the  wildest  weather; 

Oh!  they  wander  wide  who  roam. 

For  the  joys  of  life,  from  home. 


FRIEND  AFTER  FRIEND  DE- 
PARTS. 

Fkiend  after  friend  departs; 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  miion  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end : 
Were  this  frail  world  our  final  rest, 
Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  this  flight  of  time  — 
Beyond  the  reign  of  death,  — 

There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 
Where  life  is  not  a  breath ; 

Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 

Whose  sparks  fly  upward  and  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above 
Where  parting  is  unknown: 

A  long  eternity  of  love, 
Formed  for  the  good  alone : 

And  faith  beholds  the  dying,  here, 

Translated  to  that  glorious  sphere  I 

Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  past  away. 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines. 

To  pure  and  perfect  day ; 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night. 
But  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own 
light. 


MOORE. 


984 


FOR  EVER   WITH  THE  LORD. 

"  For  ever  with  the  Lord! " 

Amen!  so  let  it  be: 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word : 

'Tis  immortality! 

My  Father's  house  on  high, 
Home  of  my  soul  1  how  near, 

At  times,  to  faith's  aspiring  eye, 
Thy  golden  gates  appear! 

"  For  ever  with  the  Lord!" 
Father,  if  't  is  Thy  will, 

The  promise  of  Thy  gracious  word, 
Even  here  to  me  fulfil. 


Be  Thou  at  my  right  hand : 

So  shall  1  never  fail ; 
Uphold  Thou  me  and  1  shall  stand ; 

Help,  and  1  shall  prevail. 

So,  when  my  latest  breath 
Shall  rend  the  veil  in  twain. 

By  death  I  shall  escape  from  death, 
And  life  eternal  gain. 


Knowing  *'as  I  am  known," 
How  shall  1  love  that  word, 

And  oft  repeat  before  the  throne, 
"  For  ever  with  the  Lord." 


Thomas  Moore. 


[From  Lalla  Roolch.] 

ESTRANGEMENT  THROUGH 
TRIFLES. 

Ai.AS  —  how  light  a  cause  may  move 
Dissension  between  hearts  that  love ! 
Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  had 

tried 
And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied ; 
That  stood  the  storm,   when  waves 

were  rough. 
Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off. 
Like  ships,  that  have  gone  down  at 

sea. 
When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity! 
A  something  light  as  air  —  a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken  — 
Oh !  love  that  tempests  never  shook, 
A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  hath 
shaken. 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  be- 
gin; 
And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
Thii  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone, 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like    broken    clouds, —  or    like    the 
stream, 


brow. 

As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could 
sever. 
Yet  e'er  it  reached  the  plain  below. 
Breaks  i  ito  floods  that  part  forever. 

O  you,  that  have  the  charge  of  love, 

Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound ! 
As  in  the  fields  of  bliss  above 

He   sits,    with   flowerets    fettered 
round ; 
Loose  not  a  tie  that  round  him  clings. 
Nor  ever  let  him  use  his  wings 
For  even  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half    their 

light. 
Like  that  celestial  bird, —  whose  nest 

Is  found  beneath  far  eastern  skies, 
Whose  wings,  though  radiant  when 
at  rest, 

Lose  all  their  glory  when  he  flies. 


[From  Lalla  Rookh.] 

RECOGNITION  OF  A   CONGENIAL 
SPIRIT. 

Oh  !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that 

dart 
An    instant   sunshine   through   the 

heart, — 


886 


MOORE, 


As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life    had 
sought; 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then. 

So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and 

shone 
New,    as    if    brought    from    other 

spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years ! 


THE  BIRD  LET  LOOSE. 

The  bird,  let  loose  in  eastern  skies, 

When  hastening  fondly  home. 
Ne'er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor 
flies 
Where  idle  warblers  roam ; 
But  high  she  shoots  through  air  and 
light, 
Above  all  low  delay, 
Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her 
flight. 
Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 

So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  care. 

And  stain  of  passion  free, 
Aloft,  through  Virtue's  purer  air. 

To  hold  my  course  to  Thee ! 
No  sin  to  cloud  —  no  lure  to  stay 

My  soul,  as  home  she  springs;  — 
Thy  sunshine  on  her  joyful  way; 

Thy  freedom  in  her  wings  I 


OFT  IN  THE   STILLY  NIQHT. 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me: 

The  smiles,  the  tears. 

Of  boyhood's  years. 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 

The  eyes  that  shone. 

Now  dimmed  and  gone. 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken. 


Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  linked  together 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 
Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled. 
Whose  garlands  dead. 
And  all  but  he  departed. 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night. 
Ere    slumber's    chain    has  bound 
me. 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


0  THOU   WHO  DRY' ST  THE  MOURN- 
ERS  TEAR. 

O   THOU  who  dry' St  the  mourner's 
tear ! 
How  dark  this  world  would  be, 
If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here. 

We  could  not  fly  to  Thee. 
The  friends,  who  in  our  sunshine 
live, 
When  winter  comes,  are  flown : 
And  he,  who  has  but  tears  to  give. 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone. 
But    Thou    wilt    heal    that    broken 
heart, 
Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded 
part, 
Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When   joy    no   longer    soothes    or 
cheers, 
And  e'en  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears. 

Is  dimmed  and  vanished  too ! 
Oh!  who  would  bear  life's  stormy 
doom, 
Did  not  Thy  wing  of  love 
Come,  brightly  wafting  through  the 
gloom 
Our  peace-branch  from  above  ? 


MOORE, 


387 


Then  sorrow,  touched  by  Thee,  grows 
bright 

With  niore  than  rapture's  ray; 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

We  never  saw  by  day ! 


/  SAW  FROM  THE   BEACH. 

I  SAW  from  the  beach,   when  the 
morning  was  shining, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  glori- 
ously on; 
I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach 
was  declining. 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the 
waters  were  gone. 

And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's 
early  promise, 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy 
we  have  known ; 
Each  wave  that  we  danced    on   at 
morning,  ebbs  from  us. 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak 
shore  alone. 

Ne'er   tell   me   of   glories    serenely 
adorning 
The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve 
of  our  night :  — 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild 
freshness  of  morning. 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth 
evening's  best  light. 


Oh, 


that 


who  would  not  welcome 
moment's  retm-ning, 
When  passion  first  waked  a  new 
life  through  his  frame  ? 
And  his  soul, —  like  the  wood  that 
grows  precious  in  burning ; 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  ex- 
quisite flame ! 


COME,  YE  DISCONSOLATE. 

Come,  ye  disconsolate,  Avhere'er  you 
languish, 
Come,  at  the  shrine  of  God  fervent- 
ly kneel ; 
Here    bring    your    wounded  hearts, 
here  tell  your  anguish  — 
Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven 
cannot  heal. 


Joy  of  the  desolate,  light  of  the  stray- 
ing, 
Hope,  when  all  others  die,  fadeless 
and  pure. 
Here  speaks  the  Comforter,  in  God's 
name  saying, 
"Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven 
cannot  cure." 

Go,   ask  the   infidel   what  boon  he 
brings  us, 
Wliat  charm  for  aching  hearts  he 
can  reveal. 
Sweet  as  that  heavenly  promise  Hope 
sings  to  us  — 
"Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  God 
cannot  heal." 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

Those  evening  bells!  those  evening 

bells! 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells. 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet 

time 
When  last  I  heard  their   soothing 

chime ! 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay, 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening 
bells. 

And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone, — 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on ; 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these 

dells. 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening 

bells. 


THOU  ART,  O  GOD. 

Tiiou  art,  O  God !  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we. see; 
Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night. 
Are  but  reflections    caught    from 
Thee. 
Where'er  we  turn  Thy  glories  shine, 
And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are 
Thine. 


388 


MORRIS. 


When  day,  with  farewell  beam,  de- 
lays 
Among  the  opening  clouds  of  even, 
And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 

Through  golden  vistas  into  heaven ; 
Those  hues,  that  make  the  sun's  de- 
cline 
So  soft,  so  radiant,  Lord !  are  Thine. 

When  night,   with  wings  of  starry 

gloom, 
O'ershadows    all    the    earth    and 

skies, 
Like    some    dark,    beauteous    bird, 

whose  plume 
Is    sparkling    with    unnumbered 

eyes;  — 
That  sacred  gloom,  those  fires  divine, 
So  grand,   so  countless.   Lord!    are 

Thine. 

When    youthful    spring    around    us 

breathes, 
Thy    spirit    warms    her    fragrant 

sigh; 
And     every     flower     the     summer 

wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 
Where'er  we  turn  Thy  glories  shine, 
And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are 

Thine. 


AS  SLOW  OUR  SHIP, 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 
Against  the  wind  was  cleaving. 


Her  trembling  pennant  still  looked 
back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loth  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  where'er  we  rove. 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

AVhen  round  the  bowl,  of  vanished 
years 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming. — 
With  smiles,  that  might  as  well  be 
tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those 'we've  left  behind  us! 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vaie  enchan^mg, 
Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and 
sweet, 

And  naught  but  love  is  wanting ; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our 
bliss. 

If  heaven  had  but  assigned  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes" like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us! 

As  travellers  oft  look  back,  at  eve, 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing, — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consigned  us. 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 


George  P.  Morris. 


WOODMAN,   SPARE   THAT  TREE i 


Woodman,  spare  that  tree ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough: 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me 

And  I'll  protect  it  now, 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand. 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


That  old  familiar  tree. 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea. 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down! 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies. 


MORRIS. 


389 


When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy, 

Here,  too,  ray  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here; 

My  father  press'd  my  hand: 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear,  — 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand ! 


My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling. 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing; 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree!  the  storm  still  brave! 

And,  woodman,  leave  that  spot-, 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save. 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


William  Morris. 


[From  the  Earthly  Paradise.^ 
FEBRUARY.. 

Noon,  —  and  the  northwest  sweeps 

the  empty  road. 
The  rain-washed  fields   from  hedge 

to  hedge  are  bare ; 
Beneath  the  leafless  elms  some  hind's 

abode 
Looks  small  and  void,  and  no  smoke 

meets  the  air 
From  its  poor  hearth :  one  lonely  rook 

doth  dare 
The  gale,  and  beats  about  the  unseen 

com. 
Then  turns,  and  whirling  down  the 

wind  is  borne. 

Shall  it  not  hap  that  on  some  dawn 

of  May 
Thou  Shalt  awake,  and,  thinking  of 

days  dead, 
See  nothing  clear  but  this  same  dreary 

day. 
Of  all  the  days  that  have  passed  o'er 

thine  head  ? 
Shalt  thou  not  wonder,  looking  from 

thy  bed, 
igh  green 

east  a-fire, 
That  this  day,  too,  thine  heart  doth 

still  desire. 

Shalt  thou  not  wonder  that  it  liveth 

yet. 

The  useless  hope,  the  useless  craving 
pain. 

That  made  thy  face,  that  lonely  noon- 
tide, wet 


With  more  than  beating  of  the  chilly 
rain  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  hope  for  joy  new-born 
again, 

Since  no  grief  ever  bom  can  ever  die 

Through  changeless  change  of  sea- 
sons passing  by  ? 


[From  the  Earthly  Paradise.] 
MARCH. 

Slayer  of   winter,  art    thou  here 

again  ? 
O  welcome,  thou  that  bring' st  the 

summer  nigh ! 
The  bitter  wind  makes  not  thy  vic- 
tory vain, 
Nor  will  we  mock  thee  for  thy  faint 

blue  sky. 
Welcome,   O  March!  whose  kindly 

days  and  dry 
Make  April  ready  for  the  throstle's 

song. 
Thou  first  redresser  of  the  winter's 

wrong ! 

Yea,  welcome,  March!  and  though  I 

die  ere  June, 
Yet  for  the  hope  of  life  I  give  thee 

praise,  [tune 

Striving  to  swell  the  burden  of  the 
That  even  now  I  hear  thy  brown 

birds  raise, 
Unmindful  of    the  past  or   coming 

days;  (gun! 

Who  sing,  "  O  joy !  a  new  year  is  be- 
What  happiness  to  look  upon  the 

sun!" 


390 


MORBIS. 


Oh,  what  begetteth  all  this  storm  of 
bliss, 

But  Death  himself,  who,  crying  sol- 
emnly. 

Even  from  the  heart  of  sweet  forget- 
fulness, 

Bids  us,  "Rejoice!  lest  pleasureless 
ye  die. 

Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 

Stretch  forth  your  open  hands,  and, 
while  ye  live, 

Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and 
Life  may  give  ? ' ' 


[From  the  Earthly  Paradise.'] 
APRIL. 

O  FAIR  midspring,  besung  so  oft  and 

oft, 
How    can    I    praise    thy    loveliness 

enow  ? 
Thy  sun  that  burns  not    and    thy 

breezes  soft 
That  o'er  the  blossoms  of  the  orchard 

blow, 
The  thousand  things  that  'neath  the 

young  leaves  grow, 
The  hopes  and  chances  of  the  grow- 
ing year. 
Winter  forgotten  long  and  summer 

near.  [rose, 

When  summer  brings  the  lily  and  the 
She  brings  no  fear;  her  very  death 

she  brings 
Hid  in  her  anxious  heart,  the  forge 

of  woes ; 
And.  dull  with  fear,   no   more    the 

mavis  sings. 
But  thou!  thou  diest   not,  but  thy 

fresh  life  clings 
About  the  fainting  autumn's  sweet 

decay. 
When  in  the  earth  the  hopeful  seed 

they  lay. 

Ah!  life  of  all  the  year,  why  yet  do  I, 
Amid  thy  snowy  blossoms'  fragrant 

drift. 
Still  long  for  that  which  never  draw- 

eth  nigh. 
Striving  my  pleasure  from  my  pain 

to  sift, 


Some  weight  from  off  my  fluttering 

mirth  to  lift  ? 
—  jS^ow  when  far  bells  are  ringing, 

"  Come  again. 
Come  back,  past  years !,  why  will  ye 

pass  in  vain  ?" 


\_Frojn  the  Earthly  Paradise."] 
BE  CE  MB  Eli. 

Dead  lonely  night,  and  all  streets 

quiet  now, 
Thin  o'er  the  moon  the  hindmost 

cloud  swims  past 
Of  that  great  rack  that  brought  us  up 

the  snow ; 
On  earth,  strange  shadows  o'er  the 

snow  are  cast ; 
Pale  stars,  bright  moon,  swift  cloud, 

make  heaven  so  vast, 
That  earth,  left  silent  by  the  wind  of 

night. 
Seems  shrunken  'neath  the  gray  un- 
measured height. 

Ah !  through  the  hush  the  looked-f  or 

midnight  clangs ! 
And  then,  e'en  while  its  last  stroke's 

solemn  drone 
In  the  cold  air    by  unlit  windows 

hangs, 
Out  break  the  bells  above  the  year 

foredone, 
Change,  kindness  lost,  love  left  un- 
loved alone ; 
Till  their  despairing  sweetness  makes 

thee  deem 
Thou  once  wert  loved,  if  but  amidst 

a  dream. 

[love, 
Oh,  thou  who  clingest  still  to  life  and 
Though  naught  of  good,  no  God  thou 

mayst  discern, 
Though  naught  that  is,  thine  utmost 

woe  can  move, 
Though  no  soul   knows  wherewith 

thine  heart  doth  yearn, 
Yet,   since  thy  weary  lips  no  curse 

can  learn,  [away, 

Cast  no  least  thing  thou  lovedst  once 
Since  yet,  perchance,  thine  eyes  shall 

see  the  day. 


MOTHERWELL. 


891 


William  Motherwell. 


LAST  VERSES. 

[Given  to  a  Friend  a  day  or  two  before  the 
Writer's  Death.] 

When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth 
am  sleeping, 
Life's  fever  o'er. 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye 
weeping 
That  I'm  no  more? 
Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory 
keeping 
Of  heretofore  ? 

When  the  great  winds  through  leaf- 
less forests  rushing 
Sad  music  make; 
When  the  swollen  streams,  o'er  crag 
and  gully  gushing, 
Like  full  hearts  break,  — 
Will    there  then  one,   whose  heart 
despair  is  crushing, 
Mourn  for  my  sake  ? 

When  the  bright  sun  upou  that  spot 
is  shining, 
With  purest  ray, 
And  the  small  flowers,  their  buds  and 
blossoms  twining. 
Burst  through  that  clay,  — 
Will  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot 
repining 
Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye 
of  glory 
On  that  low  mound, 
Ajid  wintry  storms  have,  with  their 
ruins  hoary. 

Its  loneness  crowned,  — 
Will  there  be  then  one,  versed  in 
misery's  story. 
Pacing  it  round  ? 

It  may  be  so,  —  but  this  is  selfish 
sorrow 
To  ask  such  meed,  — 
A   weakness    and  a  wickedness   to 
borrow. 

From  hearts  that  bleed,     • 
The  wailings  of  to-day  for  what  ta- 
morrow 
Shall  never  need. 


Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow 
dwelling, 
Thou  gentle  heart; 
And  though  thy  bosom  should  with 
grief  be  swelling. 
Let  no  tear  start: 
It  were  in  vain,  —  for  Time  hath  long 
been  knelling,  — 
"Sad  one,  depart!" 


MY  HEID  IS  LIKE   TO  REXD, 
WILLIE. 

My  held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie. 

My  heart  is  like  to  break; 
I'm  wearin'  off  my  feet,  Willie, 

I'm  dyin'  for  your  sake! 
O,  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane,  — 
O,  say  ye' 11  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  dead  and  gane ! 

It's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  grief  maun  ha'e  its  will; 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair. 
And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair ! 

I'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life,  — 
A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie! 

A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair; 
Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  Strang  is  its  despair! 

O,  wae's  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met,  — 
O,  wae's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set ! 
O  wae's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae,  — 
And  wae's  me  for  the  destinie 

That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae! 


394 


NAIRN. 


THEY  COME!   THE  MERRY  SUMMER  MONTHS. 

They  come!  the  merry  summer  months  of  beauty,  song,  and  flowers; 

They  come !  the  gladsome  months  that  bring  thick  leafiness  to  bowers, 

Up,  up,  my  heart !  and  walk  abroad ;  fling  cark  and  care  aside ; 

Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful  waters  glide; 

Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarchal  tree. 

Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt  tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to  the  hand ; 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze  is  sweet  and  bland ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding  courteously; 

It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love,  to  bless  and  welcome  thee: 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks  —  they  now  are  silvery  gray  ■ 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whispering,  " Be  gay!" 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of  yon  sky. 

But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners  to  give  it  melody : 

Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outspread,  all  gleaming  like  red  gold; 

And  hark!  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry  course  they  hold. 

God  bless  them  all,  those  little  ones,  who,  far  above  this  earth, 

Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a  nobler  mirth. 

But  soft!  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound, —  from  yonder  wood  it  came! 
The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  his  own  glad  name;  — 
Yes,  it  is  he!  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart  from  all  his  kind, 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft  western  wind ; 
Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!  he  sings  again, —  his  notes  are  void  of  art; 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the  deep  founts  of  the  heart. 

Good  Lord !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought-crazed  wight  like  me, 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this  summer  tree! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little  souls  away. 
And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's  bright  summer  day, 
When,  mshing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the  reckless,  truant  boy 
Wandered  through  greenwoods  all  day  long,  a  mighty  heart  of  joy! 

I'm  sadder  now — I  have  had  cause;  but  oh!  I'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  yore,  I  yet  delight  to  drink:  — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the  calm  unclouded  sky, 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the  days  gone  by. 
When  summers  loveliness  and  light  fall  round  me  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse, —  a  heart  that  hath  waxed  old! 


Lady  Caroline  Nairn. 

THE  LAND   O'  THE  LEAL. 


I'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean, 
Like  Shaw- wreaths  in  thaw,  Jean ; 
Tm  wearin'  awa' 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


There's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean; 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day's  aye  fair 
I'  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


NEWELL, 


395 


Our  bonny  bairn's  there,  Jean: 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean ; 
And,  oh!  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  Jean  — 
And  joy's  a-comin'  fast,  Jean,  — 
The  joy  that's  aye  to  last 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Sae  dear's  that  joy  was  bought,  Jean, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  Jean, 
That  sinfu'  man  e'er  brought 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


Oh,  dry  your  glistening e'e,  Jean! 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean; 
And  angels  beckon  me 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Oh,  baud  ye  leal  and  true,  Jean ! 
Your  day  it's  wearin'  through,  Jean; 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
Now,  fare-ye-well,  my  ain  Jean, 
This  warld's  cares  are  vain,  Jean; 
We'll  meet,  and  we'll  be  fain. 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


William  Newell. 


SERVE   GOD  AND   BE  CHEERFUL. 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."   The 
motto 
Shall  be  mine,  as  the  bishop's  of 
old; 
On   my  soul's  coat-of-arms,  I    will 
write  it 
In  letteris  of  azure  and  gold. 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful,"  self- 
balanced, 
Wliether  Fortune  smile  sweetly  or 
frown. 
Christ    stood    king    before   Pilate. 
Within  me 
I  carry  the  sceptre  and  crown. 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."   Make 
brighter 
The  brightness  that  falls  to  your 
lot; 
The  rare  or  the  daily-sent  blessing. 
Profane  not  with  gloom  and  with 
doubt. 

* '  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful. ' '    Each 
sorrow 
Is  —  with  your  will  in  God's  —  for 
the  best. 
O'er  the  cloud  hangs  the  rainbow. 
To-morrow 
Will  see  the  blue  sky  in  the  west. 


"Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."    The 

darkness 

Only  masks  the  surprises  of  dawn ; 

And  the  deeper    and   grimmer  the 

midnight, 

The  brighter  and  sweeter  the  mom. 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."    The 
winter 
Rolls  round  to  the  beautiful  spring. 
And  in  the  green  grave  of  the  snow- 
drift 
The  nest-building  robins  will  sing. 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful. "    Look 

upward !  [gloom ; 

God's    countenance    scatters    the 

And  the  soft  summer  light  of  His 

heaven 

Shines  over  the  cross  and  the  tomb. 

"Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."     The 
wrinkles 
Of  age  we  may  take  with  a  smile ; 
But  the  wrinkles  of  faithless  fore- 
boding [g"ile. 
Are  the  crow's  feet  of  Beelzebub's 

"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."  Relig- 
ion 
Looks  all  the  more  lovely  in  white ; 
And  God  is  best  served  by  His  servant 
When,  smiling,  he  serves  in  the 
light; 


396 


NEWMAN—  NORTON. 


And    lives  out  the  glad  tidings  of 
Jesus 
In  the  sunshine  He  came  to  im- 
part. 
For  the  fruit  of  His  word  and  His 
Spirit 
*'Is  love,  joy  and  peace"  in  the 
heart. 


"  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful."     Live 
nobly, 
Do  right  and  do  good.     Make  the 
best 
Of  the  gifts  and  the  work  put  before 
you, 
And  to  God,  without  fear,  leave  the 
rest. 


John  Henry  Newman. 


A   VOICE  FROM  AFAR. 

Weep  not  for  me ;  — 
Be  blithe  as  wont,   nor  tinge  with 

gloom 
The  stream  of  love  that  circles  home, 

Light  hearts  and  free ! 
Joy  in    the  gifts  Heaven's  bounty 
lends ; 
Nor  miss  my  face,  dear  friends ! 

I  still  am  near ;  — 
Watching   the   smiles    I    prized   on 
earth ;  mirth ; 

Your  converse  mild,  your  blameless 

Now,  too,  I  hear 
Of  whispered  sounds  the  tale  com- 
plete. 
Low  prayers  and  music  sweet. 

A  sea  before 
The  Throne  is  spread :  —  its  pure  still 

glass 
Pictures  all  earth-scenes  as  they  pass. 

We,  on  its  shore, 


Share,  in  the  bosom  of  our  rest. 
God's  knowledge,  and  are  blessed. 


^FLOWERS   WITHOUT  FRUIT. 

PiiUNE  thou  thy  words,  the  thoughts 
control 

That  o'er  thee  swell  and  throng; 
They  will  condense  within  thy  soul. 

And  change  to  purpose  strong. 

But  he  who  lets  his  feelings  run 

In  soft  luxurious  flow, 
Shrinks  when  hard  service  must  be 
done. 

And  faints  at  every  woe. 

Faith's   meanest    deed    more    favor 
bears. 
When  hearts  and  wills  are  weighed. 
Than    highest    transport's   choicest 
prayers. 
Which  bloom  their  hour  and  fade. 


Andrews  Norton. 


SCENE  AFTER  A  S  UMMER  SHO  TVER. 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and 
bright 

Ton  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie ! 
Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight. 

Contrasting    with    the    dark  blue 


In  grateful  silence  earth  receives 
The  general  blessing ;  fresh  and  fair, 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves. 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 

The  softened  sunbeams  pour  around 
A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale; 


NORTON. 


397 


The  wind  blows  cool;  the  scented 
ground 
Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale. 


Mid    yon    rich    clouds'   voluptuous 
pile, 
Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 
Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  awhile, 
Then   turn   to    bathe    and  revel 
there. 


The  sun  breaks  forth;  from  off  the 
scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung; 
And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 
With  trembling  drops  of  light  is 
hung. 


Now  gaze  on  nature, — yet  the  same; 
Glowing    with     life,    by    breezes 
fanned. 
Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came. 
Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own 
hand. 


Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice. 
Which    sounds    from   all    below, 
above ; 
She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice. 
And  round  them  throws  her  arms 
of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence ;  low-born  care, 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire, 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air. 
And  mid  this  living  light  expire. 


Caroline  E.  S.  Norton. 

BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 

There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth  of  woman's  tears; 

But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his  lifeblood  ebbed  away, 

And  bent  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he  might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered,  and  he  took  that  comrade's  hand, 

And  he  said,  "  I  nevermore  shall  see  my  own,  my  native  land: 

Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some  distant  friends  of  mine. 

For  I  was  born  at  Bingen,  —  at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

*'  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and  crowd  around. 
To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vineyard  ground. 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day  was  done. 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the  setting  sun; 
And,  mid  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some  grown  old  in  wars,  — 
The  death- wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of  many  scars; 
And  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn  decline, — 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen,  — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 


"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  comfort  her  old  age; 

For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a  cage. 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 

My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce  and  wild ; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  hoard, 

I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  — but  kept  my  father's  SAvord; 

And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light  used  to  shine 

On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen,  —  calm  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 


398 


NORTON. 


"  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  drooping  head, 

Wlien  the  troops  come  marching  home  again  with  glad  and  gallant  tread, 

But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  steadfast  eye, 

For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not  afraid  to  die ; 

And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my  name 

To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame, 

And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  father's  sword  and  mine) 

For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen,  — dear  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  There's  another,  — not  a  sister:  in  the  happy  days  gone  by 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled  in  her  eye; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  —  too  fond  for  idle  scorning,  — 

0  friend !  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes  heaviest  mourning ! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for,  ere  the  moon  be  risen. 

My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of  prison),  — 

1  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow  sunlight  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along,  —  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear. 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet  and  clear; 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill. 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening  calm  and  still; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed,  with  friendly  talk, 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well-remembered  walk ! 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly,  in  mine, — 

But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen,  —  loved  Bingen  on  the  Rhine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  — his  grasp  was  childish  weak, — 

His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  —  he  sighed,  and  ceased  to  speak ; 

His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had  fled,  — 

The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  dead ; 

And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  looked  down 

On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody  corses  strown; 

Yet  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed  to  shine, 

As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen,  — :  fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 


We  have  been  friends  together 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade. 
Since    first    beneath    the   chestnut- 
trees, 

In  infancy  we  played. 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow; 
We  have  been  friends  together, 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together; 

We  have  laughed  at  little  jests ; 
For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing 

Warm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts, 


But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip. 
And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow ; 

We  have  been  gay  together. 
Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together ; 

We  have  wept  with  bitter  tears 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves  where 
slumbered 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  are  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow; 
We  have  been  sad  together. 

Oh,  what  shall  part  us  now  ? 


THE    RIDE    OF    COLLINS    GRAVES. 


Page  399. 


aiiElLLY, 


899 


John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 


PEACE  AND  PAIN. 

The  day  and  night  are  symbols  of 
creation, 
And  fiacli  has  part  in  all  that  God 
has  made: 
There  is  no  ill  without  its  compen- 
sation, ^ 
And  life  and  death  are  only  light 
and  shade. 
There  never  beat  a  heart  so  base  and 
sordid 
But  felt  at  times  a  sympathetic 
glow;  [ed, 
There  never  lived  a  virtue  unrewaiji- 
Nor  died  a  vice  without  its  meed  of 
woe. 

In  this  brief  life  despair  should  never 
reach  us; 
The  sea  looks  wide  because   the 
shores  are  dim; 
The  star  that  led  the  Magi  still  can 
teach  us 
The  way  to  go  if  we  but  look  to  Him. 


And  as  we  wade,  the  darkness  clos- 
ing o'er  us, 
The  hungry  waters  surging  to  the 
chin. 
Our  deeds   will   rise    like   stepping- 
stones  before  us  — 
The  good  and  bad  —  for  we  may 
use  the  sin. 

A  sin  of  youth,  atoned  for  and  for- 
given. 
Takes  on  a  virtue,  if  we  choose  to 
find: 
When  clouds  across  our  onward  path 
are  driven, 
We  still  may  steer  by  its  pale  light 
behind. 
A  sin  forgotten  is  in  part  to  pay  for, 
A  sin  remembered   is  a  constant 
gain : 
Sorrow,  next  joy,  is  what  we  ought 
to  pray  for, 
As  next  to  peace  we  profit  most 
from  pain. 


THE  RIDE   OF  COLLINS   GRAVES. 


No  song  of  a  soldier  riding  down 
To  the  raging  fight  from  Winchester 

town ; 
No  song  of  a  time  that  shook  the 

earth 
With  the  nation's  throe  at  a  nation's 

birth : 
But  the  song  of  a  brave  man,  free 

from  fear 
As  Sheridan's  self  or  Paul  Revere; 
Who  risked  what  they  risked,  free 

from  strife. 
And  its  promise  of  glorious  pay  —  his 

life! 

The  peaceful  valley  has  waked  and 

stirred, 
And  the  answering  echoes  of  life  are 

heard : 
The  dew  still  clings  to  the  trees  and 

grass, 
And  the  early  toilers  smiling  pass, 


As  they  glance  aside  at  the  white- 
walled  homes, 

Or  up  the  valley  where  merrily  comes 

The  brook  that  sparkles  in  diamond 
rills 

As  the  sun  comes  over  the  Hamp- 
shire hills. 

\Vliat  was  it  that  passed  like  an  omi- 
nous breath  — 

Like  a  shiver  of  fear  or  a  touch  of 
death  ? 

What  was  it  ?  The  valley  is  peace- 
ful still. 

And  the  leaves  are  afire  on  top  of  the 
hill. 

It  was  not  a  sound  —  nor  a  thing  of 
sense  — 

But  a  pain,  like  the  pang  of  the 
short  suspense  (see 

That  thrills  the  being  of  those  who 

At  their  feet  the  gulf  of  Eternity ! 


400 


a  RE  ILLY. 


The  air  of  the  valley  has  felt  the  chill  : 

The  workers  pause  at  the  door  of  the 
mill; 

The  housewife,  keen  to  the  shiver- 
ing air 

Arrests  her  foot  on  the  cottage  stair, 

Instinctive  taught  by  the  mother- 
love, 

And  thinks  of  the  sleeping  ones 
above. 

Why  start  the  listeners  ?  Why  does 
the  course 

Of  the  mill-stream  widen  ?  Is  it  a 
horse  — 

Hark  to  the  sound  of  his  hoofs,  they 
say  — 

That  gallops  so  wildly  Williamsburg 
way! 

God!  what  was  that,  like  a  human 
shriek 

From  the  winding  valley  ?  Will  no- 
body speak  ? 

Will  nobody  answer  those  women 
who  cry 

As  the  awful  warnings  thunder  by  ? 

Whence  come  they  ?  Listen  I  And 
now  they  hear 

The  sound  of  the  galloping  horse- 
hoofs  near; 

They  watch  the  trend  of  the  vale, 
and  see  [iiigly> 

The  rider  who  thunders  so  menac- 

With  waving  arms  and  warning 
scream 

To  the  home-filled  banks  of  the  val- 
ley stream.  [street 

He  draws  no  rein,  but  he  shakes  the 

With  a  shout  and  the  ring  of  the  gal- 
loping feet ; 

And  this  the  cry  he  flings  to  the 
wind : 

"To  the  hills  for  your  lives!  The 
flood  is  behind!  " 

He  cries  and  is  gone :  but  they  know 

the  worst  — 
The  breast  of  the  Williamsburg  dam 

has  burst! 
The  basin  that  nourished  their  happy 

homes 
Is  changed  to  a  demon.     It  comes! 

it  comes ! 


A  n^onster  in  aspect,   with  shaggy 

front. 
Of  shattered  dwellings,  to  take  the 

brunt 
Of  the  homes  they  shatter  — white- 

maneJ  and  hoarse. 
The  merciless  Terror  fills  the  course 
Of  the  narrow  valley,  and  rushing 

raves, 
With  Death  on  the  first  of  its  hissing 
•  waves,  [mill 

Till  cottage  and  street  and  crowded 
Are  crumbled  and  crushed. 

But  onward  still, 
In  front  of  the  roaring  flood  is  heard 
The  galloping  horse  and  the  warning 

word. 
Thank  God !  the  brave  man's  life  is 

spared ! 
From  Williamsburg  town  he  nobly 

dared 
To  race  with  the  flood  and  take  the 

road 
In    front    of   the  terrible    swath  it 

mowed. 
For  miles  it  thundered  and  crashed 

behind. 
But  he  looked  ahead  with  a  steadfast 

mind; 
"  They  must  be  warned! "  was  all  he 

said. 
As  away  on  his  terrible  ride  he  sped. 

When  heroes  are  called  for,  bring  the 

crown 
To  this  Yankee  rider:  send  him  down 
On  the  stream  of  time  with  the  Cur- 

tius  old ; 
His  deed  as  the  Roman's  was  brave 

and  bold. 
And  the  tale  can  as  noble  a  thrill 

awake. 
For  he  offered  his  life  for  the  people's 

sake. 


FOREVER. 

Those  we  love  truly  never  die, 
Though  year  by  year  the  sad  memo- 
rial wreath, 
A  ring  and  flowers,  types  of  life  and 
death. 
Are  laid  upon  their  graves. 


O'REILLY. 


401 


For  death  the  pure  life  saves, 

Poor  banished  Hagar!— prayed  a  well 

And  life   all  pure  is  love;  and  love 

might  burst 

can  reach 

From   out   the   sand    to  save  her 

From  heaven  to  earth,  and  nobler 

parching  child. 

lessons  teach 

And  loving  eyes  that  cannot  see  the 

Than  those  by  mortals  read. 

mind 

Will  watch  the  expected  movement 

Well  blessed  is  he  who  has  a  dear 

of  the  lip: 

one  dead ; 

Ah!  can  ye   let   its  cutting  silence 

A  friend  he  has  whose  face  will  never 

wind 

change  — 

Around  that  heart,  and  scathe  it 

A  dear  companion  that  will  not  grow 

like  a  whip  ? 

strange ; 

The  anchor  of  a  love  is  death. 

Unspoken  words,  like  treasures  in  the 

The  blessed  sweetness  of  a  loving 

mine, 
Are  valueless  until  we  give  them 

breath 

birth: 

Will  reach  our  cheek  all  fresh  through 

Like  unfound  gold  their  hidden  beau- 

weary years, 

ties  shine, 

For  her  who  died    long  since,  ah! 

Which  God  has  made  to  bless  and 

waste  not  tears, 

gild  the  earth. 

She's  thine  unto  tlie  end. 

How  sad  'twould  be  to  see  a  master's 

hand 

Thank  God  for  one  dead  friend, 

Strike  glorious  notes  upon  a  voice- 

With face  still  radiant  with  the  light 

less  lute! 

of  tmth, 

But  oh!   what  pain  when,  at  God's 

Wliose  love  comes  laden  with  the 

own  command, 

scent  of  youtli. 

A    heartstring    thrills  with    kind- 

Through twenty  years  of  death! 

ness,  but  is  mute ! 

Then  hide  it  not,  the  music  of  the 

soul, 

UNSPOKEl^    WOUDS. 

Dear     sympathy,    expressed    with 

kindly  voice, 

The  kindly  words  that  rise  within 

But  let  it  like  a  shining  river  roll 

the  heart, 

To  deserts  dry, —  to  hearts    that 

And  thrill  it  with  their  sympathetic 

would  rejoice. 

tone 

Oh!    let  the    symphony    of    kindly 

But  die  ere  spoken,  fail  to  play  their 

words 

part, 

Sound  for  the  poor,  the  friendless, 

And  claim  a  merit  that  is  not  their 

and  the  weak; 

own. 

And   He  will  bless  you,  —  He  who 

The  kindly  word  unspoken  is  a  sin. 

struck  these  chords 

A  sin  that  wraps  itself  in  purest 

Will  strike  another  when  in  turn 

guise, 

you  seek. 

And  tells  the  heart  that,  doubting, 
looks  within, 

That  not  in  speech,  but  thought. 

the  virtue  lies. 

HIDDEN  SINS. 

But  'tis  not   so:  another  heart  may 

For  every  sin  that  comes  before  the 

thirst 

light. 

For  that  kind  word,  as  Hagar  in 

And  leaves  an  outward  blemish  on 

the  wild- 

the  soul, 

402 


OSGOOD. 


How    many,    darker,    cower  out  of 

sight, 
And  burrow,  blind  and  silent,  like 

the  mole. 
And  like  the  mole,  too,  with  its  busy 

feet 


That  dig  and   dig  a  never-ending 

cave, 
Om"  hidden  sins  gnaw  through  the 

soul,  and  meet 
And  feast  upon  each  other  in  its 

grave. 


Frances  Sargent  Osgood. 


LABOR ARE  EST  OR ARE. 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future 

before  us ; 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares 

that  come  o'er  us; 
Hark,  how  Creation's  deep,  musical 

chorus, 
Unintermitting,     goes      up     into 

heaven ! 
Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  flow- 
ing; 
Never  the  little  seed    stops    in    its 

growing; 
More  and  more  richly  the  rose  heart 

keeps  glowing, 
Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is 

riven. 

''Labor  is  worship!"  — the  robin  is 
singing; 

" Labor  is  worship! "  — the  wild  bee 
is  ringing; 

Listen!   that  eloquent  whisper,  up- 
springing, 
Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  Na- 
ture's great  heart. 

From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life- 
giving  shower ; 

From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft- 
breathing  flower; 

From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral 
bower ; 
Only  man  shrinks,   in  the    plan, 
from  his  part. 

Labor  is  life! — 'Tis  the  still  water 
f  aileth ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark 
rust  assaileth ! 
Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  still- 
ness of  noon. 


Labor  is  glory!  —  the    flying    cloud 

lightens ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and 

brightens ; 
Idle    hearts    only    the    dark    future 

frightens ; 
Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou 

keep  them  in  tune ! 

Labor  is  rest, —  from  the  sorrows  that 

greet  us ; 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that 

meet  us. 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever 

entreat  us, 
Rest  from  world-sirens  that  lure  us 

to  ill. 
Work,  —  and    pure    slumbers    shall 

wait  on  thy  pillow ; 
Work,  —  thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's 

coming  billow: 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'neath  Woe's 

weeping-willow ! 
Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  reso- 
lute will ! 

Labor  is  health,  —  lo!  the  husband- 
man reaping, 

How  through  his  veins  goes  the  life- 
current  leaping! 

How  his  strong  arm  in  his  stalwart 
pride  sweeping, 
True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle 
guides. 

Labor    is    wealth,  —  in  the  sea  the 
pearl  groweth : 

Rich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  frail 
cocoon  floweth ; 

From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest 
bloweth ; 
Temple    and    statue    the    marble 
block  hides. 


OSGOOD. 


403 


Droop  not,  though  shame,  sin,  and 
anijuish  are  round  tliee ! 

Bravely  tling  off  the  cold  chain  that 
hath  bound  thee! 

Look  to  yon  pure  heaven  smiling  be- 
yond thee! 
Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness, 
— a  clod  I 


Work — for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so 

slowly ; 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so 

lowly : 
Labor !  —  all     labor    is     noble    and 

holy: 
Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer 

to  thy  God. 


Kate  Putnam  Osgood. 


BEFORE   THE  PRIME. 

You  think  you  love  me,  Marguerite, 
Because  you  find  Love's  fancy  sweet; 
So,  zealously,  you  seek  a  sign 
To  prove  your  heart  is  wholly  mine. 

Ah,  were  it  so!    But  listen,  dear! 
Bethink  you  how,  this  very  year, 
Wiih  fond  impatience  you  were  fain 
To  watch  the  earth  grow  green  again ; 

Wlien  April's  violets,  here  and  there, 

Surprised  the  unexpectant  air. 

You  searched  them  out,  and  brought 

me  some, 
To  show,  you  said,  that  spring  was 

come. 

But,  sweetheart,  when  the  lavish  May 
Rained  flowers  and  fragrance  round 

your  way. 
You  had  no  thought  her  bloom  to 

bring, 
To  prove  the  presence  of  the  spring! 

Believe  me,  when  Love's  April-time 
Shall  ripen  to  its  perfect  prime. 
You  will  not  need  a  sign  to  know 
What  every  glance  and  breath  will 
show ! 


DRIVING  HOME   THE  COWS. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river  lane ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass. 
Then  fastened  the  meadow -bars 
again. 


Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober 
pace ; 
The  meny  whistle  for  once  was  still, 
And  something  shadowed  the  sun- 
ny face. 

Only  a  boy !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go : 

Two  already  were  lying  dead, 
Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling 
foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done. 
And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the 
meadow-swamp. 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun. 
And  stealthily  followed  the  foot- 
path damp. 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the 
wheat. 
With  resolute  heart  and  pui*pose 
grim. 
Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hur- 
rying feet,  [him. 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been 
white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple- 
bloom  ; 
And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back 
at  night. 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the   lonely 
farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two 
had  lain; 


404 


O'SHAUOHNESSY. 


And  the  old  man's  tremulous,   pal- 
sied arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late, 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the 

work  was  done ; 

.J5ut  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the 

gate, 

He  saw  them  coming  one  by  one,  — 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 
'  Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening 

wind ; 
Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the 
grass,  —  hind  ? 

But  who  was  it  following  close  be- 
Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 
The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 


And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisp- 
ing hair, 
Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father 
knew. 

For  southern  prisons  will  sometimes 
yawn. 
And    yield   their  dead   unto   life 
again ; 
And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy 
dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meet- 
ing eyes; 
For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the 
lips  are  dumb ; 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 
Together  they  followed  the  cattle 
home. 


Arthur  O'Shaughnessy. 

SONG   OF  A   FELLOW-WORKER. 

I  FOUND  a  fellow-worker  when  I  deemed  I  toiled  alone: 

My  toil  was  fashioning  thought  and  sound,  and  his  was  hewing  stone; 

I  worked  in  the  palace  of  my  brain,  he  in  the  common  street ; 

And  it  seemed  his  toil  was  great  and  hard,  while  mine  was  great  and  sweet. 

I  said,  "  O  fellow-worker,  yea,  for  I  am  a  worker  too. 
The  heart  nigh  fails  me  many  a  day,  but  how  is  it  with  you  ? 
For  while  I  toil,  great  tears  of  joy  will  sometimes  fill  my  eyes, 
And  when  I  form  my  perfect  work,  it  lives  and  never  dies. 

"  I  carve  the  marble  of  pure  thought  until  the  thought  takes  form, 
Until  it  gleams  before  my  soul  and  makes  the  world  grow  warm; 
Until  there  comes  the  glorious  voice  and  words  that  seem  divine, 
And  the  music  reaches  all  men's  hearts  and  draws  them  into  mine. 

*'  And  yet  for  days  it  seems  my  heart  shall  blossom  never  more, 

And  the  burden  of  my  loneliness  lies  on  me  very  sore : 

Therefore,  O  hewer  of  the  stones  that  pave  base  human  ways. 

How  canst  thou  bear  the  years  till  death,  made  of  such  thankless  days  ?  " 

Then  he  replied:  "  Ere  sunrise,  when  the  pale  lips  of  the  day 
Sent  forth  an  earnest  thrill  of  breath  at  warmth  of  the  first  ray, 
A  great  thought  rose  within  me,  how,  while  men  asleep  had  lain, 
The  thousand  labors  of  the  world  had  grown  up  once  again. 

*'  The  sun  grew  on  the  world,  and  on  my  soul  the  thought  grew  too,  — 
A  great  appalling  sun,  to  light  my  soul  the  long  day  through. 
I  felt  the  world's  whole  burden  for  a  moment,  then  began 
With  man's  gigantic  strength  to  do  the  labor  of  one  man. 


PALFREY, 


405 


"  I  went  forth  hastily,  and  lo !  I  met  a  hundred  men, 
The  worker  with  the  chisel  and  the  worker  with  the  pen,  — 
The  restless  toilei*s  after  good,  who  sow  and  never  reap.   ' 
And  one  who  maketh  music  for  their  souls  that  may  not  sleep. 

"  Each  passed  me  with  a  dauntless  look,  and  my  undaunted  eyes 
Were  ahnost  softened  as  they  passed  with  tears  that  strove  to  rise 
At  sight  of  all  those  labors,  and  because  that  every  one, 
Ay,  the  greatest,  would  be  greater  if  my  little  were  undone. 

"  They  passed  me,  having  faith  in  me,  and  in  our  several  ways, 
Together  we  began  to-day  as  on  the  other  days : 
I  felt  their  mighty  hands  at  work,  and,  as  the  days  wore  through, 
Perhaps  they  felt  that  even  I  was  helping  somewhat  too. 

"  Perhaps  they  felt,  as  with  those  hands  they  lifted  mightily 
The  burden  once  more  laid  upon  the  world  so  heavily, 
That  while  they  nobly  held  it  as  each  man  can  do  and  bear, 
It  did  not  wholly  lall  my  side  as  though  no  men  were  there. 

'*  And  so  we  toil  together  many  a  day  from  morn  till  night, 

I  in  the  lower  depths  of  life,  they  on  the  lovely  height; 

For  though  the  common  stones  are  mine,  and  they  have  lofty  cares, 

Their  work  begins  where  this  leaves  off,  and  mine  is  part  of  theirs. 


**  And  'tis  not  wholly  mine  or  theirs,  I  think  of  through  the  day. 
But  the  great,  eternal  thing  we  make  together,  I  and  they ; 
Far  in  the  sunset  I  behold  a  city  that  man  owns. 
Made  fair  with  all  their  nobler  toil,  built  of  my  common  stones. 

"  Then  noon  ward,  as  the  task  grows  light  with  all  the  labor  done. 
The  single  thought  of  all  the  day  becomes  a  joyous  one; 
For,  rising  in  my  heart  at  last  where  it  has  lain  so  long. 
It  thrills  up  seeking  for  a  voice,  and  grows  almost  a  song. 

"  But  when  the  evening  comes,  indeed,  the  words  have  taken  wing, 
The  thought  sings  in  me  still,  but  I  am  all  too  tired  to  sing : 
Therefore,  O  you  my  friend,  who  serve  the  world  with  minstrelsy. 
Among  our  fellow-workers'  songs  make  that  one  song  for  me. 


] 


Rebecca  S.  Palfrey. 


WHITE  UNDERNEATH. 


Into  a  city  street, 

Narrow  and  noisome,  chance  had  led 

my  feet; 
Poisonous  to  every    sense;  and  the 

sun's  rays 
Loved  not  the  unclean  place. 


It  seemed  that  no  pure  thing 

Its  whiteness  here  would  ever  dare  to 

bring; 
Yet  even  into  this  dark  place  and 

low, 
God  had  sent  down  his  snow. 


406 


PARKER. 


Here, too,  a  little  child, 
Stood  by  the  drift,  now  blackened 
and  defiled;.  Iplay, 

And  with  his  rosy  hands,  in  earnest 
Scraped  the  dark  crust  away. 

Checking  my  hurried  pace. 
To  watch  the  busy  hands  and  earnest 
face,  [light, 

I  heard  liini  laugh  aloud  in  pure  de- 
That  underneath,  't  was  white. 

Then,  through  a  broken  pane, 

A  woman's  voice  summoned  him  in 

again. 
With  softened  mother-tones,  that  half 

excused 
The  unclean  words  she  used. 


And  as  I  lingered  near, 

His  baby  accents  fell  upon  my  ear: 

"  See,  I  can  make  the  snow  again  foi 

you. 
All  clean  and  white  and  new! " 

Ah !  surely  God  knows  best. 

Our  sight  is  short :  faith  trusts  to  Him 
the  rest. 

Sometimes,  we  know.  He  gives  to  hu- 
man hands 

To  work  out  His  commands. 

Perhaps  He  holds  apart, 

By  baby  fingers  in  that  mother's  heart, 

One  fair,  clean  spot  that  yet    may 

spread  and  grow. 
Till  all  be  white  as  snow. 


Theodore  Parker. 


THE   WAY,   THE   TRUTH  AND  THE 
LIFE. 

O  THOU,  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons 
of  men, 
Who '  once  appeared  in  humblest 
guise  below, 
Sin  to  rebuke,  to  break  the  captive's 
chain, 
And  call  Thy  brethren  forth  from 
want  and  woe,  — 
We  look  to  thee!  Thy  truth  is  still  the 
Light 
Which  guides  the  nations,  groping 
on  their  way, 
Stumbling  and  falling  in  disastrous 
night. 
Yet    hoping  ever  for  the  perfect 
day. 
Yes ;  Thou  art  still  the  Life,  Thou  art 
the  way 
The  holiest  known;  Light,  Life, 
the  Way  of  heaven ! 
And    they    who    dearest    hope  and 
deepest  pray 
Toil    by    the    Light,   Life,    Way, 
which  Thou  hast  given. 


THE  HIGHER  GOOD. 

Father,  I  will  not  ask  for  wealth  or 
fame. 

Though    once    they    would    have 
joyed  my  carnal  sense  ; 

I  shudder  not  to  bear  a  hated  name, 

Wanting  all  wealth,  myself  my  sole 
defence. 
But  give  me,   Lord,  eyes  to  behofd 
the  truth ; 

A  seeing  sense    that    knows    the 
eternal  right; 

A  heart  with  pity  filled,  and  gen- 
tlest ruth ; 

A  manly  faith  that  makes  all  dark- 
ness light.  [kind; 
Give  me  the  power  to  labor  for  man- 
Make  me  the  mouth  of    such  as 
cannot  speak : 

Eyes  let  me  be  to  groping  men,  and 

blind ;  [weak 

A  conscience  to  the  base ;  and  to  the 

Let  me  be  hands  and  feet ;  and  to 
the  foolish,  mind: 

And  lead  still  further  on  such  as 
Thy  kingdom  seek. 


PARNELL, 


407 


Thomas  Parnell. 


HYMN  TO  CONTENTMENT, 

LoVEi.Y,  lasting  Peace  of  mind ! 
S-sA  eet  delight  of  human  kind! 
Heavenly-born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favorites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below, 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know! 
Whither,  O  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  lay  thy  meek,  contented  head  ? 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease  ? 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Of  pomp  and  state,  to  meet  thee  there. 
Increasing  avarice  would  find 
Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined. 
The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way 
Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming 

sea 
To  gain  thy  love ;  and  then  perceives 
Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 
The  silent  heart,  which  grief  assails. 
Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the 

vales. 
Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run. 
And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done) 
Amusing  thought ;  but  learns  to  know 
That  Solitude's  the  nurse  of  woe. 
No  real  happiness  is  found 
In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground : 
Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 
To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky. 
Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
All  Nature  in  its  forms  below; 
The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 
And  doubts  at  last  for  knowledge 
rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  appear! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest. 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood, 
I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood. 
And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  per- 
ceived 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved ; 


It  seemed  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confessed  the  presence  of  her  grace. 
When  thus  she  spoke  —  "Go  rule  thy 

will. 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still. 
Know  God  —  and  bring  thy  heart  to 

know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow: 
Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest." 

Oh !  by  yonder  mossy  seat. 
In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat. 
Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ 
With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy: 
Raised  as  ancient  prophets  were, 
In     heavenly    vision,    praise,     and 

prayer ; 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none. 
Pleased  and  blessed  with  God  alone: 
Then  while    the    gardens    take    my 

sight. 
With  all  the  colors  of  delight; 
While  silver  waters  glide  along. 
To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song ; 
I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string. 
And  thee,  great  Source  of    Nature, 

sing. 
The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way. 
To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day : 
The  moon  that  shines  with  borrowed 

light; 
The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night ; 
The  seas  that  roll  unnumbered  waves ; 
The    wood    that    spreads    its  shady 

leaves ; 
The  field    whose  ears    conceal   the 

grain. 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain ; 
All  of  these,  and  all  I  see. 
Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me : 
They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 
But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 
Go  search  among  your  idle  dreams, 
Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes ; 
And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss. 
Or  own  the  next  begim  in  this. 


408  PARSONS, 


Thomas  William  Parsons. 

HUDSON  RIVER. 

EiVERS  that  roll  most  musical  ih  song 
Are  often  lovely  to  the  mind  alone : 

The  wanderer  muses,  as  he  moves  along 
Their  barren  banks,  on  glories  not  their  own. 

When,  to  give  substance  to  his  boyish  dreams, 
He  leaves  his  own,  far  countries  to  survey, 

Oft  must  he  think,  in  greeting  foreign  streams, 
"Their  names  alone  are  beautiful,  not  they." 

If  chance  he  mark  the  dwindled  Arno  pour 
A  tide  more  meagre  than  his  native  Charles; 

Or  views  the  Rhone  when  summer's  heat  is  o'er, 
Subdued  and  stagnant  in  the  fen  of  Aries : 

Or  when  he  sees  the  slimy  Tiber  fling 
His  sullen  tribute  at  the  feet  of  Rome, 

Oft  to  his  thought  must  partial  memory  bring 
More  noble  waves,  without  renown,  at  home. 

Now  let  him  climb  the  Catskill,  to  behold 
The  lordly  Hudson,  marching  to  the  main, 

And  say  what  bard,  in  any  land  of  old, 
Had  such  a  river  to  inspire  his  strain. 

Along  the  Rhine  gray  battlements  and  towers 
Declare  what  robbers  once  the  realm  possessed ; 

But  here  Heaven's  handiwork  surpasseth  ours, 
And  man  has  hardly  more  than  built  his  nest. 

No  storied  castle  overawes  these  heights ; 

Nor  antique  arches  check  the  current's  play; 
Nor  mouldering  architrave  the  mind  invites 

To  dream  of  deities  long  passed  away. 

No  Gothic  buttress,  or  decaying  shaft 
Of  marble,  yellowed  by  a  thousand  years, 

Lifts  a  great  landmark  to  the  little  craft,  — 
A  summer  cloud :  that  comes  and  disappears. 

But  cliffs,  unaltered  from  their  primal  form 
Since  the  subsiding  of  the  deluge,  rise 

And  hold  their  savins  to  the  upper  storm, 
While  far  below,  the  skilf  securely  plies. 

Farms,  rich  not  more  in  meadows  than  in  men 
Of  Saxon  mould,  and  strong  for  every  toil, 

Spread  o'er  the  plain,  or  scatter  through  the  glen, 
Boeotian  plenty  on  a  Spartan  soil. 


PABSONS.  409 


Then,  where  the  reign  of  cultivation  ends, 
Again  the  charming  wilderness  begins: 

From  steep  to  steep  one  solemn  wood  extends, 
Till  some  new  hamlet's  rise,  the  boscage  thins. 

And  these  deep  groves  forever  have  remained 

Touched  by  no  axe,  —  by  no  proud  owner  nursed; 

As  now  they  stand  they  stood  when  Pharaoh  reigned, 
Lineal  descendants  of  creation's  first. 


No  tales,  we  know,  are  chronicled  of  thee 
In  ancient  scrolls ;  no  deeds  of  doubtful  claim 

Have  hung  a  history  on  every  tree. 
And  given  each  rock  its  fable  and  a  f£tme. 

But  neither  here  hath  any  conqueror  trod, 
Nor  grim  invaders  from  barbarian  climes; 

No  horrors  feigned  of  giant  or  of  god 
Pollute  thy  stillness  with  recorded  crimes. 

Here  never  yet  have  happy  fields  laid  waste, 
The  ravished  harvest  and  the  blasted  fruit, 

The  cottage  ruined  and  the  slirine  defaced, 
Tracked  the  foul  passage  of  the  feudal  brute. 

"Yet,  O  Antiquity!"  the  stranger  sighs; 

"  Scenes  wanting  thee  soon  pall  upon  the  view; 
The  soul's  indifference  dulls  the  sated  eyes, 

Wliere  all  is  fair  indeed,  —  but  all  is  new." 

False  thought !  is  age  to  crumbling  walls  confined  ? 

To  Grecian  fragments  and  Egyptian  bones  ? 
Hath  Time  no  monuments  to  raise  the  mind. 

More  than  old  fortresses  and  sculptured  stones  ? 

Call  not  this  new  which  is  the  only  land 
That  wears  unchanged  the  same  primeval  face 

Which,  when  just  dawning  from  its  Maker's  hand, 
Gladdened  the  first  great  grandsire  of  our  race. 

Nor  did  Euphrates  with  an  earlier  birth 

Glide  past  green  Eden  towards  the  unknown  south, 
Than  Hudson  broke  upon  the  infant  earth. 

And  kissed  the  ocean  with  his  nameless  mouth. 

Twin-bom  with  Jordan,  Ganges,  and  the  Nile! 

Thebes  and  the  pyramids  to  thee  are  young; 
Oh!  had  thy  waters  burst  from  Britain's  isle. 

Till  now  perchance  they  had  not  flowed  unsung. 


410 


PATMORE. 


THE   GROOMSMAN  TO  HTS 
MISTRESS. 

Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 
Makes  another,  soon  or  late ; 

Never  yet  was  any  marriage 
Entered  in  the  book  of  Fate, 

But  the  names  were  also  written 
Of  the  patient  pair  tliat  wait. 

Blessings  tlien  upon  the  morning 
When  my  friend  with  fondest  look, 

By  the  solemn  rites'  permission, 
To  himself  his  mistress  took, 

And  th3  Destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

While  the  priest  fulfilled  his  office, 
Still  r.he  ground  the  lovers  eyed. 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  bride; 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins 
Who  were  waiting  at  her  side. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside 
her; 
One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair; 


But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other, 
Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair; 

Neither  dark  nor  fair,  I  call  her. 
Yet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 

While  her  groomsman — shall  I  own  it? 

Yes,  to  thee,  and  only  thee  — 
Gazed  upon  this  dark-eyed  maiden 

Who  was  fairest  of  the  three, 
Thus    he  thought:  "How  blest  the 
bridal 

Where  the  bride  were  such  as  she ! " 

Then  I  mused  upon  the  adage, 
Till  my  wisdom  was  perplexed, 

And  1  wondered,  as  the  churchman 
Dwelt  upon  his  holy  text. 

Which  of  all  who  heard  his  lesson 
Should  require  the  service  next. 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion 
For  the  flowers,  the  feast,  the  wine  ? 

Thine,  perchance,  my  dearest  lady  ; 
Or,  who  knows  ?  —  it  may  be  mine : 

What  if  't  were  —  forgive  the  fancy  — 
What    if  'twere    both    mine    and 
thine  ? 


Coventry  PatmOre. 


[From  The  Betrothal.-] 
SWEET  MEETING   OF  DESIRES. 

1  GREW  assured  before  I  asked. 

That  she'd  be  mine  without  reserve. 
And  in  her  unclaimed  graces  basked 

At    leisure,   till   the  time    should 
serve,  — 
With  just  enough  of  dread  to  thrill 

The  hope,  and  make  it  trebly  dear; 
Thus  loath  to  speak  the  word,  to  kill 

Either  the  hope  or  happy  fear. 

Till  once,  through  lanes  returning 
late, 
Her  laughing  sisters  lagged  behind ; 
And  ere  we  reached  her  father's  gate. 
We  paused  with  one  presentient 
mind ; 
And,  in  the  dim  and  perfumed  mist. 
Their  coming  stayed;  who  blithe 
and  free, 


And  very  women,  loved  to  assist 
A  lover's  opportunity. 

Twice  rose,  twice  died,  my  trembling 
word; 

To  faint  and  frail  cathedral  chimes 
Spake  time  in  music,  and  we  heard 

The  chafers  rustling  in  the  limes. 
Her  dress,  that  touched  me  where  I 
stood ; 

The  warmth  of  her  confided  arm ; 
Her  bosom's  gentle  neighborhood; 

Her  pleasure  in  her  power  to  charm ; 

Her  look,  her  love,  her  form,  her 
touch ! 
The  least  seemed  most  by  blissful 
turn, — 
Blissful    but    that    it    pleased    too 
much. 
And  taught  the  wayward  soul  to 
yearn. 


PERCIVAL, 


411 


It  was  as  if  a  harp  with  wires 
Was  traversed  by  the  breath  I  drew ; 

And  oh,  sweet  meeting  of  desires ! 
iShe,   answering,   owned   tliat  she 
loved  too. 


WOULD    WISDOM  FOR  HERSELF 
BE    WOOED. 

Would  Wisdom  for  lierself  be  wooed, 
And   wake   tlie   foolisli    from  his 
dream. 
She  must  be  glad  as  well  as  good, 

And  must  not  only  be,  but  seem. 
Beauty  and  joy  are  hers  by  right ; 

And,  knowing  this,  I  wonder  less 
That  she's  so  scorned,  when  falsely 
dight 
In  misery  and  ugliness. 
What's  that  which  Heaven  to  man 
endears, 
And  that  which  eyes  no  sooner  see 


Than  the  heart  says,  with  floods  of 
tears, 
"Ah!    that's    the    thing  which  I 
would  be?" 
Not  childhood,  full  of  fears  and  frets: 

Not  youth,  impatient  to  disown 
Those  visions  high,  which  to  forget 
Were  worse    than  never  to  have 
known. 
Not  these ;  but  souls  found  here  and 
here, 
Oases  in  our  waste  of  sin. 
When  everything  is  well  and  fair, 
And  God  remits  his  discipline; 
Whose  sweet  subdual  of  the  world 

The  worldling  scarce  can  recognize ; 
And  ridicule,  against  it  hiirled. 

Drops  with  a  broken  sting  and  dies. 
They  live  by  law,  not  like  the  fool, 

But  like  the  bard  who  freely  sings 
In  strictest  bonds  of  rhyme  and  rule, 
And  finds  in  them  not  bonds  but 
wings. 


James  Gates  Percival. 


[From  Prometheus,  Part  JI.] 

APOSTROPHE   TO    THE  SUJ^. 

Centre  of  light  and  energy !  thy  way 
Is  through  the  unknown  void ;  thou 

hast  thy  throne. 
Morning,  and  evening,  and  at  noon 

of  day. 
Far  in  the  blue,  untended  and  alone ; 
Ere  the  first-wakened  airs  of  earth 

had  blown. 
On  thou  didst  march,  triumphant  in 

thy  light; 
Then  thou  didst  send    thy  glance, 

which  still  hath  flown 
Wide     through     the     never-ending 

worlds  of  night. 
And  yet  thy  full  orb  bums  with  flash 

as  keen  and  bright. 


Thy  path  is  high  in  Heaven;  — we 

cannot  gaze 
On  the  intense  of  light  that  girds  thy 

car: 


There  is  a  crown  of  glory  in  thy  rays, 
Wliich  bear  thy  pure  divinity  afar, 
To  mingle  with  the  equal  light  of 

star; 
For  thou,  so  vast  to  us,  art  in  the 

whole 
One  of  the  sparks  of  night,  that  fire 

the  air. 
And  as  around  thy  centre  planets 

roll, 
So  thou  too  hast  thy  path  around  the 

Central  Soul. 


Age  o'er  thee  has  no  power;  —  thou 

bring' st  the  same 
Light  to  renew  the  morning,  as  when 

first,  [flame, 

If  not  eternal,  thou,  with  front  of 
On  the  dark  face  of  earth  in  glory 

burst, 
And  warmed  the  seas,  and  in  their 

bosom  nursed 
The  earliest  things  of  life,  the  worm 

and  shell; 


412 


PERCIVAL, 


Till  through  the  sinking  ocean,  moun- 
tains pierced, 

And  then  came  forth  the  land  where- 
on we  dwell. 

Reared  like  a  magic  fane  above  the 
watery  swell. 

Thou  lookest  on  the  earth,  and  then 

it  smiles; 
Thy  light  is  hid,  and  all  things  droop 

and  mourn ; 
Laughs  the  wide  sea  around  her  bud- 
ding isles. 
When    through    their    heaven    thy 

changing  car  is  borne ; 
Thou  wh^i'st  away  thy  flight,  the 

woods  are  shorn 
Of  all  their  waving  locks,  and  storms 

awake ; 
All,   that  was  once  so  beautiful,  is 

torn 
By  the  wild  winds  which  plough  the 

lonely  lake. 
And  in  their  maddening  rush,  the 

crested  mountains  shake. 

The  earth  lies  buried  in  a  shroud  of 

snow; 
Life  lingers,  and  would  die,  but  thy 

return 
Gives  to  their  gladdened  hearts  an 

overflow 
Of  all  the  power  that  brooded  in  the 

urn 
Of  their    chilled    frames,   and    then 

they  proudly  spurn 
All  bands  that  would  confine,  and 

give  to  air 
Hues,   fragrance,  shapes  of  beauty, 

till  they  burn. 
When  on  a  dewy  mom  thou  dartest 

there 
Rich  waves  of  gold  to  wreathe  with 

fairer  light  the  fair. 

Thine  are  the  mountains,  where  they 

purely  lift 
Snows  that  have  never  wasted,  in  a 

sky 
Which    hath  no  stain;    below,  the 

storm  may  drift 

irkness,  { 

roar  by ; 


Aloft  in  thy  eternal  smile  they  lie 
Dazzling  but  cold ;  thy  farewell  glance 

looks  there. 
And  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty 

die 
Girt  round  them  as  a  rosy  belt,  they 

bear 
Into  the  high  dark  vault  a  brow  that 

still  is  fair. 

The  clouds  are  thine,  and  all  their 
magic  hues 

Are  pencilled  by  thee;  when  thou 
bendest  low. 

Or  comest  in  thy  strength,  thy  hand 
imbues 

Their  waving  fold  with  such  a  per- 
fect glow 

Of  all  pure  tints,  the  fairy  pictures 
throw 

Shame  on  the  proudest  art ;  the  ten- 
der stain 

Hung  round  the  verge  of  Heaven, 
that  as  a  bow 

Girds  the  wide  world,  and  in  their 
blended  chain 

All  tints  to  the  deep  gold,  that  flashes 
in  thy  train. 

These  are  thy  trophies,   and    thou 

bend' St  thy  arch, 
The  sign. of  triumph,  in  a  seven-fold 

twine. 
Where  the  spent  storm  is  hasting  on 

its  march ; 
And  there  the  glories  of  thy  light 

combine, 
And  form  with  perfect  curve  a  lifted 

line. 
Striding  the  earth  and    air;  —  man 

looks  and  tells 
How  peace  and  mercy  in  its  beauty 

shine. 
And   how  the   heavenly  messenger 

impels 
Her  glad  wings  on  the  path,  that  thus 

in  ether  swells. 

The  ocean  is  thy  vassal ;  thou  dost 

sway 
His  waves  to  thy  dominion,  and  they 

go, 
Where  thou  in  Heaven  dost  guide 
them  on  their  way, 


a  a 


s  ft  a  at        c 


PERCIVAL. 


413 


Rising  and  falling  in  eternal  flow ; 
Thou  lookest  on  the  waters,  and  they 

glow, 
They  take  them  wings  and  spring 

aloft  in  air, 
And    change  to  clouds,   and    then, 

dissolving,  throw 
Their  treasures  back  to  earth,  and 

rushing,  tear 
The    mountain    and    the    vale,    as 

proudly  on  they  bear. 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 

/       Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove. 
Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold- 
fish rove, 
,      Where    the    sea-flower    spreads    its 
leaves  of  blue. 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty 
shine,  [brine. 

Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  moun- 
tain drift. 
And  the    pearl-shells     spangle    the 

flinty  snow ; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and 

billows  flow ; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 
For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent 

there. 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars 

that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air: 
There  with  its  waving  blade  of  green. 
The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  si- 
lent water. 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is 

seen 
To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in 

slaughter : 
There  with  a  light  and  easy  motion. 
The  fan-coral  sweeps    through    the 

clear  deep  sea ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of 

ocean 
Are  bending  like  com  on  the  upland 

lea : 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms. 
Is  sporting  amid  those    bowers    of 
stone, 


And  is  safe  when  the  wrathful  spirit 

of  storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his 

own; 
And   when  the  ship  from  his  fury 

flies. 
Where   the  myriad  voices  of  ocean 

roar. 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the 

murky  skies. 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck 

on  shore; 
Then  far  below  in  the  peaceful  sea. 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove. 
Where  the  waters  mummr  tranquilly. 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the 

corq,l  grove. 


TO  SENECA  LAKE. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake ! 

The   wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy 

sail, 
And  round  his  breast    the    ripples 

break. 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream! 
The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far. 
And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam. 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore. 
As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their 

foam. 
And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar; 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide. 
And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 
Float  round  the  distant  mountain's 
side. 

At   midnight    hour,   as    shines    the 

moon, 
A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 
And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon. 
Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest 

snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake ! 
Oh !  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 
And  evening  tells  us,  toil  is  o'er. 


414 


PERRY. 


Nora  Perry. 


AFTER   THE  BALL, 

TiiEY  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful 
hair, 
Tlieir  long  bright  tresses,  one  by- 
one, 
As,  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the 
chamber  there. 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

Idly  they  talked  of  waltz    and  qua- 
drille ; 
Idly  they  laughed  like  other  girls, 
Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still. 
Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

Robes  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 

Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons  too, 
Scattered  about  in  every  place. 
For  the  revel  is  through. 

And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of 
white. 
The    prettiest    nightgowns    under 
the  sun, 
Stockingless,  slipperless,   sit  in  the 
night. 
For  the  revel  is  done. 

Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 
Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown 
and  gold. 
Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber 
there. 
And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold. 

Then,  out  of  the  gathering  winter 
chill. 
All  out    of  the  bitter  St.  Agnes 
weather. 
While  the  fire  is  out  and  the  house  is 
still, 
Maud  and  Madge  together,  — 

Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  prettiest  nightgowns  mider  the 
sun, 
Curtained  away  from  the  chilly  night, 
After  the  revel  is  done!  — 

Float  along  in  a  splendid  dream, 
To  a  golden  gittern's  tinkling  tune, 


While  a  thousand  lustres  shimmering 
stream. 
In  a  palace's  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of   jewels    and    flutter   of 
laces. 
Tropical  odors  sweeter  than  musk; 
Men  and  women  with  beautiful  faces 
And  eyes  of  tropical  dusk,  — 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star. 

One  face  haimting  the  dreams  of 

each. 

And  one  voice  sweeter  than  others 

are. 

Breaking  into  silvery  speech,  — 

Telling,    through    lips    of    bearded 
bloom, 
An  old,  old  story  over  again, 
As  down  the  royal  bannered  room, 
To  the  golden  gittern's  strain, 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk. 
While  an  unseen  spirit  walks  be- 
side, 
And,  all  unheard  in  the  lovers'  talk. 
He  claimeth  one  for  a  bride. 

O  Maud  and  Madge,  dream  on  to- 
gether. 
With  ne^'-er  a  pang  of  jealous  fear! 
For,  ere  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather 
Shall  whiten  another  year. 

Robed  for  the  bridal,  and  robed  for 
the  tomb. 
Braided    brown  hair    and    golden' 
tress. 
There  '11  be  only  one  of  you  left  for 
the  bloom 
Of  the  bearded  lips  to  press,  — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  pearls. 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 
Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 
At  the  sight  of  a  lover's  face. 

O  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal 
white. 
For  you  the  revel  has  just  begun: 


PERRY. 


415 


But  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms 
to-night 
The  revel  of  life  is  done! 

But,   robed  and  crowned  with  your 
saintly  bliss, 
Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the 
sun, 
O  beautiful  Maud,  you'  11  never  miss 
The  kisses  another  hath  won! 


IN  AN  HOUR. 

I. 
ANTICIPATION. 


she 


"  I'll  take  the  orchard  path 
said. 

Speaking  lowly,  smiling  slowly : 
The  brook  was  dried  within  its  bed, 
The  hot  riun  flung  a  flame  of  red 
Low  in  the  west  {»s  forth  she  sped. 

Across  the  dried    brook-course  she 
went, 
Singing  lowly,  smiling  slowly ; 
She  scarcely  felt  the  sun  that  spent 
Its  fiery  force  in  swift  descent. 
She  never  saw  the  wheat  was  bent, 

The  grasses  parched,  the  blossoms 
dried ; 
Singing  lowly,  smiling  slowly, 
Her  eyes  amidst  the  drouth  espied 
A  summer  pleasance  far  and  wide. 
With  roses  and  sweet  violets  pied. 

II. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

But  homeward  coming  all  the  way, 

Sighing  lowly,  pacing  slowly. 
She  knew  the  bent  wheat  withering 

lay, 
She  saw  the  blossoms'  dry  decay, 
She  missed  the  Httle  brooklet's  play. 

A  breeze  had  sprung  from  out  the 

south, 
But,  sighing  lowly,  pacing  slowly, 
She  only  felt  the  burning  drouth ; 
Her  eyes  were  hot  and  parched  her 

mouth, 
Yet  sw^et  the  wind  blew  from  the 

south. 


And  when  the  wind  brought  welcome 
rain, 
Still  sighing  lowly,  pacing  slowly, 
She  never  saw  the  lifting  grain, 
But  only  —  a  lone  orchard  lane. 
Where  she  had  waited  all  in  vain. 


TYING  HER  BONNET  UNDER  HER 
CHIN. 

Tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in ; 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair. 
For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  up  the 

hill, 
Where  the  wind  comes  blowing  merry 

and  chill; 
And  it  blew  the  curls  a  frolicsome 

race. 
All  over  her   happy    peach-colored 

face. 
Till,  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied 

them  in, 
Under  her  beautiful  dimpled  chin. 

And  it  blew  a  color,  bright  as  the 

bloom 
Of    the    pinkest    fuchsia's    tossing 

plume, 
All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest 

girl 
That  ever  imprisoned  a  romping  curl, 
Or,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
Tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

Steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  hill ; 

Madder,  merrier,  chillier  still 

The  western  wind  blew  down,  and 

played 
The  wildest    tricks  with  the  little 

maid. 
As,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

O  western  wind,  do  you  think  it  was 

fair. 
To  play  such  tricks  with  her  floating 

hair? 


416 


PHELPS, 


To  gladly,  gleefully  do  your  best 
To  blow  her  against  the  young  man's 

breast, 
Where  he  as  gladly  folded  her  in, 
And  kissed  her  mouth  and  her  dim- 
pled chin  ? 

Ah !  Ellery  Yane,  you  little  thought, 
An  hour  ago,  when  you  besought 
This  country  lass  to  walk  with  you. 
After  the  sun  had  dried  the  dew. 
What  perilous  danger  you'd  be  in. 
As  she  tied  her  bonnet  under  her 
chin! 


SOME  DAY  OF  DA  YS. 

Some  day;  some  day  of  days,  thread- 
ing the  street 
With  idle,  heedless  pace, 
Unlooking  for  such  grace, 
I  shall  behold  your  face ! 
Some  day,  some  day  of  days,  thus 
may  we  meet. 

Perchance  the  sun  may  shine  from 
skies  of  May, 


Or  winter's  icy  chill 
Touch  whitely  vale  and  hilL 
What  matter  ?    I  shall  thrill 
Through  every  vein  with  summer  on 
that  day. 

Once  more  life's  perfect  youth  will 
all  come  back. 
And  for  a  moment  there 
I  shall  stand  fresh  and  fair. 
And  drop  the  garment  care : 
Once  more  my  perfect    youth  will 
nothing  lack. 

I  shut  my  eyes  now,  thinking  how 
't  will  be,— 
How  face  to  face  each  soul 
Will  slip  its  long  control, 
Forget  the  dismal  dole 

Of  dreary  Fate's  dark  separating  sea; 

And  glance  to  glance,  and  hand  to 
hand  in  greeting. 
The  past  with  all  its  fears, 
Its  silences  and  tears, 
Its  lonely,  yearning  years. 
Shall  vanish  in  the  moment  of  that 
meeting. 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 


ALL   THE  RIVERS. 

"  All,  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
Like  the  pulsing  of  a  river, 
The  motion  of  a  song. 
Wind  the  olden  words  along 
The  tortuous  turnings  of  my  thoughts 
whenever 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
O  you  little  leaping  river 
Laugh  on  beneath  your  breath ! 
With  a  heart  as  deep  as  death. 
Strong  stream,  go  patient,  grave,  and 
hasting  never,  — 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
Why  the  passion  of  a  river  ? 
The  striving  of  a  soul  ? 


Calm  the  eternal  waters  roll 
Upon    the    eternal  shore.     At 
whatever 
Seeks  it  —  finds  the  sea. 


last. 


"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
O  thou  bounding,  burning  river. 
Hurrying  heart !    I  seem 
To  know  (so  one  knows  in  a  dream) 
That  in  the  waiting  heart  of  God 
forever, 
Thou  too  Shalt  find  the  sea. 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 

A  LILY  rooted  in  a  sacred  soil. 
Arrayed  with  those  who  neither  spin 

nor  toil ; 
Dinah,   the   preacher,    through    the 

purple  air, 


PHELPS, 


417 


Forever,  in  her  gentle  evening  prayer, 
Shall  plead  for  her  —  what  ear  too 

deaf  to  hear  ?  — 
"As  if  she  spoke  to  some  one  very 

near." 

And  he  of   storied  Florence,  whose 

great  heart 
Broke  for  its  human  error;  wrapped 

apart,  [flame 

And  scorching  in  the  swift,  prophetic 
Of   passion    for   late    holiness    and 

shame 
Than  untried  glory  grander,  gladder, 

higher — 
Deathless,  for  her,  he  "  testifies  by 

fire." 

A  statue,  fair  and  firm,  on  marble 

feet. 
Womanhood's    woman,     Dorothea, 

sweet 
As    strength,  and  strong  as  tender- 
ness, to  make 
A   " struggle » with    the    dark"    for 

white  light's  sake, 
Immortal  stands,  unanswered  speaks. 

Shall  they. 
Of    her   great   hand    the    moulded, 

breathing  clay, 
Her  fit,  select,  and  proud  survivors 

be?  — 
Possess  the  life  eternal,  and  not  she  ? 


DESERTED  NESTS. 

I'd  rather  see  an  empty  bough, — 
A  dreaiy,  weary  bough  that  hung 
As  boughs  will  hang  within  whose 

arms 
No  mated  birds  had  ever  sung; 
Far  rather  than  to  see  or  touch 
The  sadness  of  an  empty  nest 
Where  joy  has  been,  but  is  not  now; 
Where  love  has  been,  but  is  not  blest. 


There  is  no  sadness  in  the  world, 
No  other  like  it  here  or  there,  — 
The  sadness  of  deserted  homes 
In  nests,  or  hearts,  or  anywhere. 


A  LETTER. 

Two  things  love  can  do, 

Only  two: 
Can  distrust,  or  can  believe; 
It  can  die,  or  it  can  live, 
There  is  no  syncope 
Possible  to  love  or  me. 

Go  your  ways ! 

Two  things  you  can  do, 

Only  two : 
Be  the  thing  you  used  to  be, 
Or  be  nothing  more  to  me. 
I  can  but  joy  or  grieve. 
Can  no  more  than  die  or  live. 

Go  your  ways ! 

So  far  I  wrote,  my  darling,  drearily. 
But  now  my  sad  pen  falls  down  wear- 
ily 
From  out  my  trembling  hand. 

I  did  not,  do  not,  cannot  mean  it, 

dear! 
Come  life  or  death,  joy,  grief,  or 
hope,  or  fear, 
I  bless  you  where  I  stand ! 

I  bless  you  where  I  stand,  excusing 

you, 
No  speech  nor  language  for  accusing 

you 
My  laggard  lips  can  learn. 

To  you  —  be  what  you  are,  or  can,  to 

me,  — 
To  you  or  blessedly  or  fatefully 
My  heart  must  turn  I 


418 


PIATT. 


John  James  Piatt. 


READING   THE  MILESTONE. 

I  STOPPED  to  read  the  milestone  here, 
A  laggard  school-boy,  long  ago; 

I  came  not  far  —  my  home  was  near — 
But  ah,  how  far  I  longed  to  go! 

Behold  a  number  and  a  name, 
A  linger,  westward,  cut  in  stone: 

The  vision  of  a  city  came. 
Across  the  dust  and  distance  shown. 

Around  me  lay  the  farms  asleep 

In  hazes  of  autunmal  air. 
And  sounds  that  quiet  loves  to  keep 

Were  heard,  and  heard  not,  every- 
where. 

I  read  the  milestone,  day  by  day: 
I  yearned  to  cross  the  barren  bound, 

To  know  the  golden  Far-away, 
To    walk    the     new     Enchanted 
Ground I 


TWO  PATRONS. 

"What  shall  I  singi"    I  sighed, 
and  said, 
"That  men  shall  know  me  when 
my  name 
Is  lost  with  kindred  lips,  and  dead 
Are  laurels  of  famiUar  fame  ?  " 

Below,  a  violet  in  the  dew 
Breathed   through    the    dark    its 
vague  perfume; 
Above,  a  star  in  quiet  blue 
Touched  with  a  gracious  ray  the 
gloom. 

"Sing,  friend,  of    me,"    the    violet 
sighed, 
"  That  I  may  haunt   your  grave 
with  love;" 
''  Sing,  friend,   of  me,"  the  star  re- 
plied, 
"  That  I  may  light  the  dark  above." 


THE  SIGHT  OF  ANGELS. 

The  angels  come,  the  angels  go. 
Through  open  doors  of  purer  air; 


Their   moving  presence  oftentimes 
we  know. 
It  thrills  us  everywhere. 

Sometimes  we  see  them ;  lo !  at  night, 
Oiu"  eyes  were  shut,   but  opened 
seem: 
The  darkness  breathed  a  breath  of 
wondrous  light. 
And  then  it  was  a  dream! 


THE  LOVE-LETTER. 

I  GREET  thee,  loving  letter  — 
Unopened,  kiss  thee  free. 

And  dream  her  lips  within  thee 
Give  back  the  kiss  to  me ! 

The  fragrant  little  rose-leaf, 
She  sends  by  thee,  is  come: 

Ah,  in  her  heart  was  blooming 
The  rose  she  stole  it  from ! 


THE   GOLDEN  HAND. 

Lo,  from  the  city's  heat  and  dast 
A  golden  hand  forever  thrust. 
Uplifting  from  a  spire  on  high 
A  shining  finger  in  the  sky ! 

I  see  it  when  the  morning  brings 
Fresh  tides  of  life  to  living  things. 
And  the  great  w^orld  awakes:  behold. 
That  lifted  hand  in  morning  gold! 

I  see  it  when  the  noontide  beats 
Pulses  of  fire  in  busy  streets ; 
The  dust  flies  in  the  flaming  air : 
Above,  that  quiet  hand  is  there. 

I  see  it  when  the  twilight  clings 

To    the  dark  earth    with    hovering 

wings : 
Flashing  with  the  last  fluttering  ray. 
That  golden  hand  remembers  day. 

The  midnight  comes  —  the  holy  hour; 
The  city  like  a  giant  flower 
Sleeps  full  of  dew :  that  hand,  in  light 
Of    moon    and    stars,   how    weirdly 
bright ! 


PIATT. 


419 


Below,  in  many  a  noisy  street 
Are  toiling  hands  and  striving  feet; 
The  weakest  rise,  the  strongest  fall ; 
That  equal  hand  is  over  all. 

i^elow,  in  courts  to  guard  the  land, 
Gold  buys  the  tongue  and  binds  the 

hand ; 
Stealing  in  God's  great  scales    the 

gold; 
That  awful  hand,  above,  behold ! 

Below,  the  Sabbaths  walk  serene 
With  the  great  dust  of  days  between; 
Preachers  within  their  pulpits  stand : 
See,  over  all,  that  heavenly  hand ! 


But  the  hot  dust,  in  crowded  air 
Below,  arises  never  there: 
O  speech  of  one  who  cannot  speak! 
O  Sabbath-witness  of  the  Week  I 


A  SONG  OF  CONTENT. 

The  eagle  nestles  near  the  sun; 

The  dove's  low  nest  for  me!  — 
The  eagle's  on  the  crag:  sweet  one, 

The  dove's  in  our  green  tree. 
For  hearts  that  beat  like  thine  and 
mine. 

Heaven  blesses  humble  earth ; 
The  angels  of  our  Heaven  shall  shine 

The  angels  of  our  hearth  1 


Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt. 


TO-DA  Y. 

Ah,  real  thing  of  bloom  and  breath, 
I  cannot  love  you  while  you  stay; 

Put  on  the  dim,  still  charm  of  death, 
Fade  to  a  phantom,  float  away. 
And  let  me  call  you  Yesterday ! 

Let  empty  flower-dust  at  my  feet 
Kemind  me  of  the  buds  you  wear; 

Let  the  bird's  quiet  show  how  sweet 
The  far-off  singing  made  the  air; 
And  let  yom-  dew  through  frost 
look  fair. 

In  mourning  you  I  shall  rejoice. 
Go :  for  the  bitter  word  may  be 

A  music  —  in  the  vanished  voice; 
And  on  the  dead  face  I  may  see 
How  bright  its  frown  has  been  to 
me. 

Then  in  the  haunted  grass  I'll  sit, 
Half-teai-f  ul  in  your  withered  place, 

And  watch  your  lovely  shadow  flit 
Across  To-morrow's  sunny  face, 
And  vex   her  with    your    perfect 
grace. 

So,  real  thing  of  bloom  and  breath, 
I  weary  of  you  while  you  stay. 

Put  on  the  dim,  still  charm  of  death, 
Fade  to  a  phantom,  float  away. 
And  let  me  call  you  Yesterday  1 


LAST  WORDS. 

Good-night,    pretty     sleepers     of 
mine  — 

I  never  shall  see  you  again : 
Ah,  never  in  shadow  or  shine; 

Ah,  never  in  dew  nor  in  rain ! 

In  your  small  dreaming-dresses   of 
white. 
With  the  wild-bloom  you  gathered 
to-day 
In  your  quiet  shut  hands,  from  the 
light 
And  the  dark,  you    will    wander 
away. 

Though  no  graves  in  the  bee-haunted 
grass, 
Andno  love  in  the  beautiful  sky. 
Shall   take    you    as    yet,    you   will 
pass, 
With  this  kiss  through  these  tear- 
drops.    Good-by"! 

With  less  gold  and  more  gloom  in 
their  hair. 
When  the  buds  near  have  faded  to 
flowers. 
Three  faces  may  wake  here  as  fair  — 
But    older    than    yours    are,    by 
hours ! 


420 


PI  A  TT. 


Good-night,    then,   lost  darlings    of 
mine  — 

I  never  shall  see  you  again : 
Ah,  never  in  shadow  nor  shine; 

Ah,  never  in  dew  nor  in  rain ! 


A  DREAM'S  A  WAKENING. 

Shut  in  a  close  and  dreary  sleep, 
Lonely    and    frightened    and    op- 
pressed 
I  felt  a  dreadful  serpent  creep, 
Writhing  and   crushing    o'er    my 
breast. 

I  woke  and  knew  my  child's  sweet 

arm. 

As  soft  and  pure  as  flakes  of  snow. 

Beneath  my  dream's  dark,   hateful 

charm, 

Had  been  the  thing  that  tortured  so. 

And  in  the  morning's  dew  and  light 

I  seemed  to  hear  an  angel  say, 
"  The  Pain  that  stings  in  Time's  low 
night 
May  prove  God's  Love  in  higher 
day." 


THAT  NEW  WOULD. 

How  gracious  we  are  to  grant  to  the 
dead 
Those  wide,   vague  lands  in    the 
foreign  sky, 
Eeserving  this  world  for   ourselves 
instead  — 
For  we  must  live,  though  others 
must  die ! 

And  what  is  this  world  that  we  keep, 

I  pray  ? 

True,  it  has  glimpses  of  dews  and 

flowers ; 

Then  Youth  and  Love  are  here  and 

away,  |  ours. 

Like  mated  birds — but  nothing  is 

Ah,  nothing  indeed,  but  we  cling  to 
it  all. 
It  is  nothing  to  hear  one's  own 
heart  beat, 


It  is  nothing  to  see  one's  own  tears 
fall; 
Yet  surely  the  breath  of  our  life  is 
sweet. 

Yes,   the  breath   of  our  life    is    so 
sweet,  1  fear 
We  were  loath  to  give  it  for  all  we 
know 
Of  that  charmed  country  we  hold  so 
dear. 
Far  into  whose  beauty  the  breath- 
less go. 

Yet  certain  we  are,   when  we    see 
them  fade 
Out  of  the  pleasant  light  of  ^he 
sun, 
Of  the  sands  of  gold  in  the  palm- 
leaf's  shade. 
And   the  strange  high  jewels  all 
these  have  won. 

You  dare  not  doubt  it,   O  soul  of 
mine! 
And  yet  if  these  empty  eyes  could 
see 
One,  only  one,  from  that  voyage  di- 
vine. 
With  something,  anything  sure  for 
me! 

Ah,  blow  me  the  scent  of  one  lily,  to 
tell 
That  it  grew  outside  of  this  world 
at  most ; 
All,  show  me  a  plume  to  touch,  or  a 
shell 
That  whispers  of  some  unearthly 
coast ! 


MAKING  PEACE. 

After  this  feud  of  yours  and  mine 

The  san  will  shine; 
After  we  both  forget,  forget, 

The  sun  will  set. 

I  pray  you  think  how    warm    and 
sweet 

The  heart  can  beat ; 
I  pray  you  think  how  soon  the  rose 

From  grave-dust  grows. 


PIATT. 


421 


CALLING    THE  DEAD. 

My  little  child,   so  sweet    a   voice 

might  wake 
So  sweet  a  sleeper  for  so  sweet  a 

sake.  [you» 

Calling  your  buried  brother  back  to 
You  laugh  and  listen  —  till  I  listen 

too! 

WTiy  does  he  listen  ?    It  may  be  to 

hear 
Sounds    too    divine    to    reach    my 

troubled  ear. 
Why  does  he  laugh  ?    It  may  be  he 

can  see 
The  face  that  only  tears  can  hide 

from  me. 

Poor  baby  faith  —  so  foolish  or  so 
wise : 

The  name  I  shape  out  of  forlomest 
cries 

He  speaks  as  with  a  bird's  or  blos- 
som's breath. 

How  fair  the  knowledge  is  that 
knows  not  Death ! 

Ah,  fools  and  blind  —  through  all  the 

piteous  years 
Searchers  of  stars  and  graves — how 

many  seers, 
Calling  the  dead,  and  seeking  for  a 

sign. 
Have  laughed  and  listened,  like  this 

child  of  mine  ? 


THE  FLOWERS  IN  THE  GROUND. 

UxDER  the  cofiin-lid  there  are  roses : 
They  bud  like  dreams  in  the  sleep 
of  the  dead ; 
And  the  long,  vague  dark  that  around 
them  closes 
Is  flushed  and  sweet  with   their 
glory  of  red. 


From  the  buried  seeds  of  love  they 
blossom, 
All  crimson-stained  from  its  blood 
they  start ; 
And  each  sleeper  wears  them  on  his 
bosom, 
Clasped  over  the  pallid  dust  of  his 
heart. 

When  the  Angel  of  Morning  shall 
shake  the  slumber 
Away  from  the  graves  with   liis 
lighted  wings. 
He  will  gather  those  roses,  an  infi- 
nite number, 
And  bear  them  to   Heaven,    the 
beautiful  things ! 


ASKING  FOR   TEARS. 

Oh,  let  me  come  to  Thee  in  this  wild 

way. 
Fierce    with  a  grief    that  will    not 

sleep,  to  pray 
Of  all  thy  treasures,   Father,    only 

one. 
After  which  I  may  say  —  Thy  will  be 

done. 

Nay,  fear  not  thou  to  make  my  time 

too  sweet; 
I  nurse  a  Sorrow, —  kiss  its  hands 

and  feet. 
Call  it  all  piteous,  precious  names, 

and  trj% 
Awake  at  night,  to  hush  its  helpless 

cry. 

The  sand  is  at  my  moaning  lip,  the 

glare 
Of  the  uplifted  desert  fills  the  air; 
My  eyes  are  blind  and  burning,  and 

the  years 
Stretch  on  before   me.    Therefore, 

give  me  tears  1 


49-2 


PIEUPONT. 


John  Pierpont. 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

The    Pilgrim    Fathers  —  where  -are 
they  ? 
The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their 
spray, 
As  they  break  along  the  shore; 
(Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that 
day, 
When  the  Mayflower  moored  below. 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with 
storms, 
And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrim's 
sleep, 
Still  brood  upon  the  tide; 
And  the  rocks  yet  keep  their  w^atch  by 
the  deep, 
To  stay  its  waves  o'f  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave 
to  the  gale. 
When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is 
gone;  — 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  open- 
ing cloud, 
Is  seen  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  Pilgrim  exile  —  sainted  name !  — 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morn- 
ing's flame. 
In  the  morning's  flame  bums  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay 
that  night 
On  the  hill-side  and  the  sea. 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless 
head ; — 
But  the  Pilgrim  —  where  is  he  ? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest : 

When  summer  is  throned  on  high. 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in 
verdure  dressed, 

Gro,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day. 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the 
world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 


The  Pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled : 
It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glo- 
rious dead. 
With  the  holy  stars  by- night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who 
have  bled. 
And    shall  guard    this    ice-bound 
shore. 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the 
Mayflower  lay. 
Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


MY  CHILD. 

I  CANNOT  make  him  dead ! 
His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding    round  my  study 
chair ; 
Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 
With  tears,  I  turn  to  him. 
The    vision    vanishes  —  he    is    not 
there. 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  door, 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair, 

I'  m  stepping  toward  the  hall. 

To  give  the  boy  a  call ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is 
not  there : 

I  thread  the  crowded  street, 
A  satchelled  lad  I  meet. 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  col- 
ored hair: 
And,  as  he  's  running  by. 
Follow  him  with  my  eye. 
Scarcely  believing  that  —  he  is  not 
there ! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 
Under  the  coffin  lid : 
Closed  are  his  eyes :  cold  is  his  fore- 
head fair; 
My  hand  that  marble  felt  : 
O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that  —  he  is 
not  there. 


POE. 


423 


I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 
AVhen  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watched  over  witlt  parental 
care. 
My  spirit  and  my  eye 
Seek  him  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that  —  he 
is  not  there ! 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 
Of  day,  from  sleep  1  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morn- 
ing air, 
My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 
To  Him  who  gave  my  boy ; 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that  — 
he  is  not  there ! 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close. 

Before  we  seek  repose,     [prayer, 
I'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying. 

I  am  in  spirit  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though — he  is 
not  there ! 


Not  there  I  —  Where  then  is  he  ? 
The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to 
wear. 
The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 
Upon  that  cast-otf  dress. 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked ;  —  he  is 
not  there ! 

He  lives !  —  In  all  the  past 

He  lives ;  nor,  to  the  last. 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair; 

In  dreams  1  see  him  now ; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  see  it  written,  "  Tliou  shalt  see  me 
there!  " 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God ! 
Fatiiek,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  alflicted  ones,  to 
bear. 
That,  in  the  spirit-land, 
Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that  — 
he  is  there ! 


Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago. 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you 
may  know 
By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no 
other  thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

/  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea : 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was 
more  than  love  — 
I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs 
of  heaven 
Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long 
ago. 
In  the  kingdom  by  the  sea, 


A  wind  blew  out  of  the  cloud,  chilling 
My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 

So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 
And  bore  her  away  from  me. 

To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,   not  half    so  happy  in 
heaven. 
Went  envying  her  and  me  — 
Yes!  —  that  was  the  reason  (as  all 
men  know. 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud 
by  night, 
Chilling  and   killing  my  Annabel 
Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far 
than  the  love 
Of  those  that  were  older  than  we  — 
Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven 
above, 


424 


POE. 


Nor  the  demons  down  under  the 

sea. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the 

soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee : 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without 
bringing  me  dreams 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel 
the  bright  eyes 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down 

by  the  side 
Of    my  darling  —  my  darling  —  my 
life  and  my  bride. 
In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea. 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


THE  BELLS. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells  — 
Silver  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  mel- 
ody foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle. 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musi- 
cally wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling 
of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  har- 
mony foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune. 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To    the    turtle-dove    that    listens, 
while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What   a   gush  of  euphony  volumi- 
nously wells  I 


How  it  swells ! 

How  it  dwells 

On  the  future !  how  it  tells 

Of  the  rapture  that  impels 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bell^— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of 
the  bells! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells  — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  tur- 
bulency  tells! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek. 
Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mer- 
cy of  the  fire. 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf 
and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher. 
With  a  desperate  desire. 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never. 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and 

roar! 
Wliat  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating 
air! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging. 
And  the  clanging. 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells. 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells. 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the 
anger  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of 
the  bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells  — 
Iron  bells  I 


POE. 


425 


What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their 
monody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  attright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their 
tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone. 
Feel  a  glory  in  their  roUing 
On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human ; 
They  are  ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 
A  paean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  sw^ells 

With  the  paian  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Kunic  rhyme. 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
As  he  knells,  knells,  knells. 


In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of 
the  bells. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Because  I  feel  that,  in  the  heavens 
above. 
The    angels,    whispering    to    one 
another. 
Can  find,  among  their  burning  terms 
of  love, 
None    so   devotional    as   that   of 
"  Mother," 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long 
have  called  you  — 
You  who  are  more  than  mother 
unto  me. 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where 
death  installed  you 
In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My  mother — my  own  mother,  who 
died  early,  [you 

Was  but  the  mother  of  myself ;  but 
Are  mother  to   the  one  I  loved  so 
dearly. 
And    thus    are    dearer    than    the 
mother  I  knew 
By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 
Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul- 
life. 


THE  raven: 
Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  chamber  door  — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more.'* 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow;  —  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore  — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  — 

Nameless  here  for  ever  more. 


426  POE. 

And  the  silken,  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door  — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  1  heard  you  "  — here  I  opened  wide  the  door;  — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  the  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  before; 
But  the  silence  w^asunbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  vyas  the  whispered  word  "  Lenore  ?' 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word  "  Lenore  I "  — 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window  lattice; 
Let  me  see  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore  — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore ;  — 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed  he; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door  — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no  craven. 

Ghastly,  grim  and  ancient  Kaven,  wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore  — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore!  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning  —  little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door  — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered  — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered  "  Other  friends  have  flown  before  — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said  "  Nevermore." 


POE.  427 


Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  1,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore  — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 

Of  '  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 

Bur  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 

Straight  1  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  lieiy  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  1  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er. 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  serai^him  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 

*' Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —  by  these  angels  he  hath 

sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore ! 
Quafif,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore. 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaimted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted  — 
On  this  home  by  horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  implore  — 
Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell  me,  I  implore! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Prophet!"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God  we  both  adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  wiiom  the  angels  name  Lenore  — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend !"  I  shrieked,  upstarting  — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken! 
Leave  my  loneliness  mibroken!  —  quit  the  bust  above  my  door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor,  . 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore ! 


428 


POLLOK. 


Robert  Pollok. 


[From  The  Course  of  Time.'\ 

LORD  BYIiON. 

He  touched  liis  harp,  and  nations 
beard,  entranced. 

As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing 
source, 

Rapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  num- 
bers flowed, 

And  oped  new  fountains  in  the  hu- 
man heart. 

Where  Fancy  baited,  weary  in  her 
flight. 

In  other  men,  his,  fresh  as  morning, 
rose 

And  soared  untrodden  heights,  and 
seemed  at  home, 

Where  angels  bashful  looked.  Oth- 
ers, though  great 

Beneath  their  argument  seemed 
struggling  whiles; 

He  from  above  descending  stooped  to 
touch 

The  loftiest  thought;  and  proudly 
stooped,  as  though 

It  scarce  deserved  his  verse.  With 
Nature's  self 

He  seemed  an  old  acquaintance,  free 
to  jest 

At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  "  the  Ocean's 
mane," 

And  played  familiar  with  his  hoary 
locks ;  [ennines. 

Stood  on  the  Alps,  stood  on  the  Ap- 

And  with  the  thunder  talked,  as 
friend  to  friend ; 

And  wove  his  garland  of  the  light- 
ning's wing, 

In  sportive  twist,  the  lightning's 
fiery  wing. 

Which,  as  the  footsteps  of  the  dread- 
ful God, 

Marching  upon  the  storm  in  ven- 
geance, P€emed; 


Then  turned,  and  with  the  grass- 
hopper, who  sung 

His  evening  song  beneath  his  feet, 
conversed. 

Suns,  moons,  and  stars,  and  clouds, 
his  sisters  were ; 

Rocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas,  and 
winds,  and  storms. 

His  brothers,  younger  brothers,  whom 
he  scarce 

As  equals  deemed.  All  passions  of 
all  men, 

The  wild  and  tame,  the  gentle  and 
severe ; 

All  thoughts,  all  maxims,  sacred  and 
profane ; 

All  creeds,  all  seasons.  Time,  Eter- 
nity; 

All  that  was  hated,  all  too,  that  was 
dear ; 

All  that  was  hoped,  all  that  was 
feared,  by  man ; 

He  tossed  about,  as  tempest-with- 
ered leaves. 

Then,  smiling,  looked  upon  the  wreck 
he  made. 

With  terror  now  he  froze  the  cower- 
ing blood. 

And  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  ten- 
derness ; 

Yet  would  not  tremble,  would  not 
weep  himself; 

But  back  into  his  soul  retired, 
alone. 

Dark,  sullen,  proud,  gazing  contempt- 
uously 

On  hearts  and  passions  prostrate  at 
his  feet. 

So  Ocean  from  the  plains  his  waves 
had  late 

To  desolation  swept,  retired  in 
pride. 

Exulting  in  the  glory  of  his  might, 

And  seemed  to  mock  the  ruin  he  liaJ 
wrought. 


POPE. 


429 


ALEXANDER    POPE. 


FROM  "ELOISA    TO  ABE  LAUD." 

Ix  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful 
cells, 

Where  heavenly-pensive  Contempla- 
tion dwells, 

And  ever-inusing  melancholy  reigns ; 

What  means  this  tumult  in  a  vestal's 
veins  ? 

Why  rove  ray  thoughts  beyond  this 
last  retreat  ? 

Why  feels  my  heart  its  long-forgot- 
ten heat  ? 

Yet,  yet  I  love!  —  From  Abelard  it 
came. 

And  Eloisa  yet  must  kiss  the  name. 
Dear    fatal    name !  rest  ever  unre- 
vealed, 

Nor  pass  these  lips,  in  holy  silence 
sealed :  [disguise, 

Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  close 

Where,  mixed  with  God 's,  his  loved 
idea  lies : 

0  write  it  not,  my  hand  —  the  name 

appears  [tears! 

Already  written  —  wash   it   out,  my 
In  vain  lost  Eloisa  weeps  and  prays, 
Her  heart  still  dictates,  and  her  hand 

obeys. 
Relentless  walls!  whose  darksome 

round  contains 
Repentant  sighs,  and  vohmtary  pains : 
Ye  rugged  rocks,  which  holy  knees 

have  worn: 
Ye  grots  and  caverns  shagged  with 

horrid  thorn ! 
Shrines !  where  their  vigils  pale-eyed 

virgins  keep, 
And  pitying  saints,    whose    statues 

learn  to  weep! 
Though  cold  like  you,  unmoved  and 

silent  grown, 

1  have  not  yeti orgot  myself  to  stone. 
All  is  not  Heaven's  while  Abelard 

has  part. 
Still  rebel  nature  holds  out  half  my 

heart ; 
Nor  prayers  nor  fasts   its  stubborn 

pulse  restrain,  [vain. 

Nor  tears  for  ages  taught  to  flow  in 


Soon  as  thy  letters  trembling  I  un- 
close, 
That  well-known  name  awakens  all 

my  woes. 
Oh,  name,  for  ever  sad!    for  ever 

dear! 
Still  breathed  in  sighs,  still  ushered 

with  a  tear. 
I  tremble,  too,  whene'er  my  own  I 

find; 
Some  dire,  misfortune  follows  close 

behind. 
Line  after  line  my  gushing  eyes  o'er- 

flow, 
Led  through  a  sad  variety  of  woe : 
Now  warm  in  love,  now  withering  in 

my  bloom, 
Lost  in  a  convent's  solitary  gloom! 
There  stern  religion    quenched  the 

unwilling  flame. 
There  died  tlie  best  of  passions,  love 

and  fame. 
Yet  write,  oh !  write  me  all,  that  I 

may  join 
Griefs  to  thy  griefs,  and  echo  sighs 

to  thine. 
Nor  foes  nor  fortune  take  this  power 

away ; 
And  is  my  Abelard  less  kind  than 

they  ? 
Tears  still  are  mine,  and  those  I  need 

not  spare, 
Love  but  demands  what  else  were 

shed  in  prayer; 
No  happier  task   these   faded  eyes 

pursue ; 
To  read  and  weep  is  all  they  now  can 

do. 
Then  share  thy  pain,  allow  that 

sad  relief; 
Ah,  more  than  share  it!  give  me  all 

thy  grief. 
Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some 

wretch's  aid. 
Some  banished  lover,  or  some  cap- 
tive maid; 
They  live,  they  speak,  they  breathe 

what  love  inspires, 
Warm  from  the  soul,  and  faithful  to 

its  fires, 


430 


POPE. 


The  virgin's  wish  without  her  fears 

impart, 
Excuse  the  blush,  and  pour  out  all 

the  heart, 
Speed  the  soft  intercourse  from  soul 

to  soul, 
And  waft  a  sigh  from  Indus  to  the 

Pole. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Man.] 
MAX. 

Know  then  thyself,  presume  not 

God  to  scan, 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  Man. 
Placed  on  this  isthmus  of  a  middle 

state, 
A    being    darkly    wise,   and    rudely 

great ; 
With  too  much  knowledge  for  the 

sceptic  side, 
With  too  much  weakness  for  the  sto- 
ic's pride. 
He  hangs  between;  in  doubt  to  act  or 

rest ; 
In  doubt  to  deem  himself  a  god,  or 

beast ; 
In  doubt  his  mind  or  body  to  prefer; 
Born  but  to  die,  and  reasoning  but 

to  err; 
Alike  in  ignorance,  his  reason  such. 
Whether  he  thinks  too  little,  or  too 

much ; 
Chaos  of  thought  and  passion,  all 

confused 
Still  by  himself  abused,  or  disabused; 
Created  half  to  rise,  and  half  to  fall ; 
Great  lord  of  all  things,  yet  a  prey  to 

all; 
Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error 

hurled : 
The  glory,   jest,   and  riddle  of  the 

world ! 


[From  An  Essay  on  Man.] 

SUBMISSION    TO    SUPREME    WIS- 
DOM. 

What  if  the  foot,   ordained  the 
dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the 
head? 


What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  re- 
pined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling 

mind? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another,  in  this  general  frame : 
Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  tasks 

or  pains, 
The    great    directing   Mind    of    All 

ordains. 
All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous 

whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the 

soul ; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet 

in  all  the  same. 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  the  ethereal 

frame,  [breeze, 

Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in 

the  trees; 
Lives     through     all     life,     extends 

through  all  extent. 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent ; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,   informs  our. 

mortal  part, 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that 

mourns. 
As  the  rapt  seraph,  that  adores  and 

burns ; 
To  Him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great, 

no  small ; 
He  fills.  He  bounds,  connects,  and 

equals  all. 
Cease   then,  nor   order   imperfec- 
tion name : 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we 

blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :  this  kind,  this 

due  degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness.  Heaven  be- 
stows on  thee. 
Submit.  —  In    this,    or    any    other 

sphere, 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst 

bear : 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing 

power. 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to 

thee ; 
All  chance,   direction,   which    thou 

canst  not  see  ; 


POPE. 


431 


All  discord,  harmony  not  understood; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good: 
And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's 

spite, 
One  truth  is  clear,  Whatei^er  is,  is 

riyht. 


{From  An  Essay  on  Man.] 

CHARITY,   GRADUALLY   PERVA- 
Sl  VE. 

God  loves  from  whole  to  parts; 

but  human  soul 
Must    rise    from    individual  to   the 

whole. 
Self-love    but    serves    the   virtuous 

mind  to  wake, 
As  the  small  pebble  stirs  the  peaceful 

lake; 
The  centre  moved,  a  circle  straight 

succeeds. 
Another     still,    and    still    another 

spreads ; 
Friend,  parent,  neighbor,  first  it  will 

embrace ; 
His  country  next,  and  next  all  human 

race; 
Wide,  and  more  wide,  the  o'erflow- 

ings  of  the  mind 
Take    every  creature    in,    of    every 

kind ; 
Earth  smiles  around,  with  boundless 

bounty  blest, 
And  heaven  beholds  its  image  in  his 

breast. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Man.] 
TRUE  NOBILITY. 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condi- 
tion rise; 

Act  well  yoiu-  part,  there  all  the 
honor  lies. 

Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  dif- 
ference made. 

One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in 
brocade ; 

The  cobbler  aproned,  and  the  parson 
gowned, 

The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch 
crowned. 


"What  differ  more  (you  cry)  than 

crown  and  cowl! " 
I'll  tell  you,  friend!  a  wise  man  and 

a  fool. 
You'll  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts 

the  monk, 
Or,  cobbler-like,  the  parson  will  be 

drunk, 
Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of 

it  the  fellow ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunello. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Man.] 

VIRTUE,     THE    SOLE     UNFAILING 

HAPPINESS. 

Kxow^  then  this  truth  (enough  for 

man  to  know), 
"  Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below." 
The  only  point  where  human  bliss 

stands  still. 
And  tastes  the  good  without  the  fall 

to  ill;  [ceives. 

Where  only  merit  constant  pay  re- 
Is  blest  in  what  it  takes,  and  what  it 

gives; 
The  joy  imequalled,  if  its  end  it  gain, 
And  if  it  lose,  attended  with  no  pain : 
Without  satiety,  though  e'er  so  blest, 
And  but  more  relished  as  the  more 

distressed : 
The  broadest  mirth,  unfeeling  Folly 

wears,  [tears: 

Less  pleasing  far  than  Virtue's  very 
Good,  from  each  object,  from  each 

place  acquired. 
For  ever  exercised,  yet  never  tired ; 
Never  elated,  while  one  man's  op- 
pressed ; 
Never     dejected,     while     another's 

blessed ; 
And  Avhere  no  wants,  no  wishes  can 

remain, 
Since  but  to  wish  more  virtue,  is  to 

gain. 
See  the  sole  bliss.  Heaven  could  on 

all  bestow  I 
WTiich  who  but  feels  can  taste,  but 

thinks  can  know : 
Yet    poor  with    fortune,   and    with 

learning  blind. 
The  bad  must  miss;  the  good,  un- 
taught, will  find; 


432 


POPE, 


Slave  to  no  sect,  who  takes  no  private 

road, 
But  looks  through  nature  up  to  na- 
ture's God;  . 
Pursues  that  chain  which  links  the 

immense  design, 
Joins  heaven  and  earth,  and  mortal 

and  divine; 
Sees  that  no   being    any  bliss    can 

know. 
But  touches  some  above,  and  some 

below ; 
Learns  from  this  union  of  the  rising 

whole, 
The  first,  last  purpose  of  the  human 

soul ; 
And  knows  where  faith,  law,  morals, 

all  began. 
All  end,  in  love  of  God  and  love  of 

mem. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Criticism.] 
TRUTH  TO  NATURE. 

First  follow  Nature,  and  your  judg- 
ment frame 

By  her  just  standard,  which  is  still 
the  same ; 

Unerring  Nature,  still  divinely  bright, 

One  clear,  unchanged,  and  universal 
light, 

liife,  force,  and  beauty,  must  to  all 
impart. 

At  once  the  source,  and  end,  and 
test  of  art. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Criticism.] 
JUST  JUDGMENT. 

Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece 
to  see. 

Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor 
e'er  shall  be. 

In  every  work  regard  the  writer's 
end. 

Since  none  can  compass  more  than 
they  intend ; 

And  if  the  means  be  just,  the  con- 
duct true, 

Applause,  in  spite  of  trivial  faults,  is 
due. 


As  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men 

of  wit. 
To  avoid  great  errors,  must  the  less 

commit ; 
Neglect  the  rules  each  verbal  critic 

lays. 
For  not  to  know  some  trifles  is  a 

praise. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Criticism.] 
WIT. 

Tkue  wit  is  nature    to    advantage 

dressed ; 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so 

well  expressed: 
Something,  whose  truth,  convinced 

at  sight  we  find. 
That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our 

mind. 
As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend 

the  light, 
So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly 

wit. 
For  works  may  have  more  wit  than 

does  them  good. 
As  bodies  perish  through  excess  of 

blood. 


[From  An  Essay  on  Criticism.] 
EXCESSIVE  PRAISE    OR    BLAME. 

Avoid  extremes;    and    shun    the 

fault  of  such 
Who  still  are  pleased  too  little  or  too 

much. 
At  every  trifle  scorn  to  take  offence. 
That  always   shows  great    pride  or 

little  sense : 
Those  heads,  as  stomachs,  are  not 

sure  the  best 
Which  nauseate  all,  and  nothing  can 

digest. 
Yet  let  not  each  gay  turn  thy  rapture 

move: 
For  fools  admire,  but  men  of  sense 

approve : 
As    things    seem    large    which    we 

through  mist  descry, 
Dulness  is  ever  apt  to  magnify. 


PRESCOTT. 


483 


THE    UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

Fatiiek  of  all!  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord! 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  under- 
stood. 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good. 

And  that  myself  am  blind ; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate. 

To  see  the  good  from  ill; 
And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate. 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do. 
This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to 
shun. 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What    blessings    Thy   free   bounty 
gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives ; 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound. 

Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man. 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 


Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw. 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  Thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right.  Thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay ; 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh,  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way ! 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see: 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show. 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  Thy  breath; 

Oh,  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go. 
Through  this  day's  life  or  death! 

This  day,  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot: 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know' St  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  spaee, 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies! 

One  chorus  let  all  Being  raise ! 
All  Nature's  incense  rise  I 


Mary  N.  Prescott. 


THE   OLD  STORY. 

By  the  pleasant  paths  we  know 
All  familiar  flowers  would  grow. 

Though  we  two  were  gone ; 
Moon  and  stars  would  rise  and  set. 
Dawn  the  laggard  night  forget. 

And  the  world  move  on. 

Spring  would  carol  through  the  wood. 
Life  be  counted  sweet  and  good. 
Winter    storms    would    prove    their 

While  the  seasons  sped ;       [might. 
Winter  frosts  make  bold  to  bite. 

Clouds  lift  overhead. 


Still  the  sunset  lights  would  glow. 
Still  the  heaven-appointed  bow 

In  its  place  be  hung; 
Not  one  flower  the  less  would  bloom, 
Though  we  two  had  met  our  doom. 

No  song  less  be  sung. 

Other  lovers  through  the  dew 
Would  go,  loitering,  two  and  two, 

Wlien  the  day  was  done ; 
Lips  would  pass  the  kiss  divine. 
Hearts  would  beat  like    yours  and 
mine,  — 

Hearts  that  beat  as  one. 


434 


PRESTON. 


TO-DA  Y. 

To-day  the  sunshine  freely  showers 

Its  benediction  where  we  stand ; 
There's    not  a  passing    cloud    that 
lowers 
Above  this  pleasant  summer  land; 
Then  let's  not  waste  the  sweet  to- 
day,— 
To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 

Perhaps,  to-morrow  we  may  be, — 
Alas !  alas !  the  thought  is  pain,  — 

As  far  apart  as  sky  and  sea. 

Sundered  to  meet  no  more  again ; 

Then  let  us   clasp    thee,   sweet  to- 
day,— 
To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 

The  daylight  fades ;  a  purple  dream 
Of  twilight  hovers  overhead. 


While  all  the  trembling  stars  but  seem 
Like  sad  tears  yet  imshed ; 

Oh,  sweet  to-day,  so  soon  away ! 
To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 


ASLEEP. 

Sound  asleep !  no  sigh  can  reach 
Him     who     dreams    the     heavenly 

dream ; 
No  to-morrow's  silver  speech 
Wake  him  with  an  earthly  theme. 
Summer  rains,  relentlessly. 
Patter  where  his  head  doth  lie. 
There  the  wild  rose  and  the  brake 
All  their  summer  leisure  take. 
Violets,  blinded  by  the  dew, 
Perfume  lend  to  the  sad  rue. 
Till  the  day  break  fair  and  clear, 
And  no  shadow  doth  appear. 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston. 


EQUIPOISE. 

Just  when  we  think  we've  fixed  the 
golden  mean,  — 
The  diamond  point,  on  which  to 

balance  fair 
Life  and  life's  lofty  issues,  weigh- 
ing there. 
With  fractional  precision,  close  and 

keen. 
Thought,  motive,  word  and  deed,  — 
there  comes  between 
Some  wayward  circumstance,  some 

jostling  care, 
Some  temper's  fret,  some  mood's 
unwise  despair, 
To  mar  the  equilibrium,  unforeseen. 
And  spoil  our  nice  adjustment!  — 
Happy  he, 
Whose    soul's    calm    equipoise    can 
know  no  jar. 
Because  the  unwavering  hand  that 
holds  the  scales. 
Is  the  same  hand  that  weighed  each 
steadfast  star,  — 
Is  the  same  hand  that  on  the  sa- 
cred tree  [nails! 
Bore,  for  his  sake,  1,he  anguish  of  the 


OURS. 

Most  perfect  attribute  of  love,  that 
knows 
No  separate  self,  —  no   conscious 

mine  nor  thine : 
But  mystic  union,  closer,  more  di- 
vine [close. 
Than  wedded  soul  and  body  can  dis- 
No  flush  of  pleasure  on  thy  forehead 

glows. 
No  mist  of  feeling  in  thine  eyes  can 
shine. 
No  faintest  pain  surprise  thee,  but 
there  goes 
The    lightning-spark     along    love's 
viewless  line, 
Bearing  with  instant  message  to 
my  heart, 
Responsive    recognition.      Suns     or 
showers 
May  come    between  us;    silences 
may  part ; 
The  rushing  world  know  not,   nor 

care  to  know ;  — 
Yet    back    and    forth    the    flashing 
secrets  go. 
Whose  sacred,  only  sesame  is,  ours  ! 


PRESTON. 


435 


■  NATURE'S  LESS  OX. 

Pain  is  no  longer  pain   when  it  is 
past; 
And  what  is  all  the  mirth  of  yes- 
terday, 
More  than  the  yester    flush   that 
paled  away, 
Leaving  no  trace  across  the  landscape 
cast 
Whereby    to    prove    its    presence 
there  ?    The  blast 
That  bowed  the  laiotted  oak  beneath 

its  sway, 
And  rent  the  lissome  ash,  the  forest 
may 
Take  heed  of  longer,  since  strewn 
leaves  outlast 
Strewn  sunbeams  even.   Be  thou  like 
Nature  then, 
Calmly  receptive  of  all  sweet  de- 
lights, 
The  while  they  soothe  and  strengthen 
thee:  and  when 
The  wrench  of   trial  comes   with 
swirl  and  strain, 
Think  of  the  still  progressive  days 
and  nights. 
That  blot  with  equal  sweep,  both 
joy  and  pain. 


GOD'S  PATIENCE. 

Of  all  the  attributes  whose  starry 
rays 
Converge  and  centre  in  one  focal 

light 
Of  luminous  glory  such  as  angels' 
sight 

Can  only  look  on  with  a  blenched 
amaze. 
None  crowns  the  brow  of  God  with 
purer  blaze, 

Nor  lifts  His  grandeur  to  more  infi- 
nite height. 

Than  His  exhaustless  patience.     Let 
us  praise 

With  wondering  hearts,  this  strangest 
tenderest  grace. 
Remembering,  awe-struck,  that  the 
avenging  rod 

Of  justice  must  have  fallen,  and  mer- 
cy's plan 


Been    frustrate,  had    not    Patience 
stood  between. 
Divinely  meek:   And  let  us  learn 
that  man, 
Toiling,  enduring,  pleading,  —  calm, 
serene. 
For  those  who  scorn  and  slight,  is 
likest  God. 


THE  SHADOW. 

It  comes  betwixt  me  and  the  ame- 
thyst 
Of    yon    far    mountain's    billowy 
range; — the  sky. 

Mild  with   sun-setting  calmness,  to 
my  eye 
Is  curtained  ever  by  its  haunting 
mist; 

And    oftentimes    when    some    dear 
brow  I've  kissed, 

My  lips  grow  tremulous  as  it  sweeps 
me  by. 

With  stress  of  overmastering  agony 
That  faith  and  reason  all  in  vain 
resist. 

It  blurs  my  fairest  books;  it  dims  the 
page 
Of  the  divinest  lore;  and  on  my 
tongue 

The    broken    prayer    that    inward 
strength  would  crave. 

Dissolves  in  sobs  no  soothing  can  as- 
suage ; 
And  this  penurabral  gloom,  —  this 
heart-cloud  flung 

Around  me  is,  the  memory  of  a  grave. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  GRAVE. 

A  SIMPLE,  sodded  mound  of  earth, 

Without  a  line  above  it ; 
With  only  daily  votive  flowers 

To  prov.e  that  any  love  it : 
The  token  flag  that  silently 

Each  breeze's  visit  numbers. 
Alone  keeps  martial  ward  above 

The  hero's  dreamless  slumbers. 

No  name  ?  —  no  record  ?    Ask  the 
world ; 
The  world  has  read  his  story:  — 


436 


PRESTON. 


If  all  its  annals  can  unfold 

A  prouder  tale  of  glory ; 
If  ever  merely  human  life 

Hath  taught  diviner  moral,  — 
If  ever  round  a  worthier  brow 

Was  twined  a  purer  laurel ! 

A  twelvemonth  only,  since  his  sword 

Went  flashing  through  the  battle,  — 
A  twelvemonth  only,  since  his  ear 

Heard  war's  last  deadly  rattle,  — 
And  yet,  have  countless  pilgrim  feet 

The  pilgrim's  guerdon  paid  him, 
And  weeping  women  come  to  see 

The  place  where   they  have  laid 
him. 

Contending  armies  bring  in  turn, 

Their  meed  of  praise  or  honor, 
And  Pallas  here  has  paused  to  bind 

The  cypress-wreath  upon  her: 
It  seems  a  holy  sepulchre, 

Whose  sanctities  can  waken 
Alike  the  love  of  friend  or  foe  — 

Of  Christian  or  of  pagan. 

But  who  shall  weigh  the  wordless 
grief 
That  leaves  in  tears  its  traces. 
As  round  their  leader  crowd  again 
The  bronzed  and  veteran  faces  ? 
The   "Old   Brigade"    he    loved    so 
well  — 
The  mountain  men,   who    boimd 
him 
With  bays  of  their  own  winning,  ere 
A  tardier  fame  had  crowned  him ; 

The  legions  who  had  seen  his  glance 

Across  the  carnage  flashing 
And  thrilled  to    catch    his    ringing 
"  charge  " 

Above  the  volley  crashing;  — 
Who  oft  had  watched  the  lifted  hand, 

The  inward  trust  betraying. 
And  felt  their  courage  grow  sublime, 

While  they  beheld  him  praying ! 

Eare  fame !  rare  name !  —  If  chanted 
praise. 

With  all  the  world  to  listen,  — 
If  pride  that  swells  a  nation's  soul,  — 

If  foemen's  tears  that  glisten,  — 


If  pilgrim's  shrining  love, — if  grief 
Which  naught  may  soothe  or 
sever,  — 

If  these  can  consecrate,  —  this  spot 
Is  sacred  ground  forever! 


THERE'LL  COME  A  DAY. 

There'll  come   a    day  when    the 
supremest  splendor 
Of  earth,  or  sky,  or  sea, 
Whate'er  their  miracles,  sublime  or 
tender, 
Will  wake  no  joy  in  me. 

There'll  come  a  day  when  all  the  as- 
piration. 
Now  with  such  fervor  fraught. 
As  lifts  to  heights  of  breathless  exal- 
tation, 
Will  seem  a  thing  of  naught. 

There'll  come  a  day  when    riches, 
honor,  glory. 
Music  and  song  and  art. 
Will  look  like  puppets  in  a  worn-out 
story. 
Where  each  has  played  his  part. 

There'll  come  a  day  when  human 
love,  the  sweetest 
Gift  that  includes  the  whole 
Of   God's  grand  giving  —  sovereign- 
est,  completest  — 
Shall  fail  to  fill  my  soul. 

There'll  come  a  day  —  I  will  not  care 
how  passes 
The  cloud  across  my  sight, 
If  only,  lark-like,  from  earth's  nested 
grasses, 
I  spring  to  meet  its  light. 


THE   TYRANNY  OF  MOOD. 
I.   MORNING. 

It    is    enough:    I  feel,  this  golden 

morn. 

As  if  a  royal  appanage  were  mine, 

Through  Nature's  queenly  warrant 

of  divine  [born, 

Investiture.    What  princess,  palace- 


PRINGLE. 


437 


Hath  right  of  rapture  more,  when 
skies  adorn 
Themselves  so  grandly;    when    the 

mountains  shine 
Transfigured;    when  the   air    exalts 
hke  wine; 
When  pearly  purples  steep  the  yel- 
lowing corn  ? 
So  satisfied  with  all  the  goodliness 
Of  God's  good  world, — my  being 
to  its  brim 
Surcharged  with  utter  thankfulness 
no  less  [glad 

Than  bliss  of  beauty,  passionately 
Through  rush  of  tears  that  leaves  the 
landscape  dim, — 
"Who  dares,"  I  say,  "in  such  a 
world  be  sad  ?  " 

II.    NIGHT. 

I  PRESS  my  cheek  against  the  win- 
dow-pane. 
And  gaze  abroad  into  the  blank, 
black  space 


Where  earth  and  sky  no  more  have 
any  place. 
Wiped  from  existence  by  the  expung- 
ing rain ; 
And  as  I  hear  the  worried  winds 
complain, 
A  darkness,  darker  than  the  mirk 

whose  trace 
Invades  the  curtained  room,  is  on  my 
face. 
Beneath  which,  life  and  life's  best 
ends  seem  vain. 
My    swelling     aspirations    viewless 
sink 
As  yon  cloud-blotted  hills:  hopes 
that  shone  bright 
As  planets  yester-eve,  like  them  to- 
night 
Are  gulfed,  the  impenetrable  mists 
before : 
"O  weary    world!"     I  cry,    "how 
dare  I  think 
Thou  hast  for  me  one  gleam  of 
gladness  more  ?  " 


Thomas  Pringle. 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by 
my  side. 

When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul 
o'ercast. 

And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  cling  to 
the  past ; 

When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regret- 
ful tears. 

From  the  fond  recollections  of  former 
years; 

And  shadows  of  things  that  have 
long  since  fled 

Flit  over  the  brain,  like  the  ghosts  of 
the  dead ; 

Bright  visions  of  glory  that  vanished 
too  soon; 

Day-dreams  that  departed  ere  man- 
hood's noon;  [reft; 

Attachments  by    fate    or  falsehood 

Companions  of  early  days  lost  or 
left— 


And  my  native  land  —  whose  magi- 
cal name 

Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame ; 

The  home  of  my  childhood:  the 
haunts  of  my  prime: 

All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that 
rapturous  time 

When  the  feelings  were  young,  and 
the  world  was  new. 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  un- 
folding to  view; 

Ah  —  all  now  forsaken  —  forgotten  — 
foregone !  [none  — 

And  I  —  a  lone  exile  remembered  of 

My  high  aims  abandoned  —  my  good 
acts  undone  — 

Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun, — 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no 
stranger  may  scan, 

I  fly  to  the  desert  afar  from  man. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by 
my  side, 


438 


PBINGLE. 


When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  weari- 
some life, 

With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  cor- 
ruption, and  strife  — 

The  proud  man's  frown,  and  the  base 
man's  fear  — 
corner's 
er's  tear 

And    malice,    and    meanness,    and 
falsehood  and  folly, 

Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  mel- 
ancholy ; 

When    my  bosom  is   full,   and  my 
thoughts  are  high, 

And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bond- 
man's sigh  — 

Oh!  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy 
and  pride, 

Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride ! 

There   is    rapture  to   vault  on   the 
champing  steed, 

And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's 
speed. 

With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in 
my  hand  — 

The  only  law  of  the  desert  land  I 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my 

side. 
Away  —  away  from  the  dwellings  of 

men. 
By  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  buf- 
falo's glen; 
By  valleys  remote  where  the  oriby 

plays 
Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the 

hartebeest  graze, 
And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted 

recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forest  o'erhung 

with  wild  vine ! 
Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace 

in  his  wood. 
And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared 

in  the  flood. 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows 

at  will 
In  the  fen  where    the  wild  ass  is 

drinking  his  fill. 

Aifar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my 
side, 


O'er  the  brown  karroo,  where  the 

bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plain- 
tively; 
And    the    timorous    quagga's   shrill 

whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight 

gi-ay; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his 

mane. 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate 

plain ; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the 

waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels 

in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped 

their  nest. 
Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's 

view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parched 

karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by 

my  side. 
Away  —  away  —  in  the  wilderness 

vast. 
Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath 

never  passed. 
And  the  quivered  Coranna  or  Bech- 

uan 
Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving 

clan; 
A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and 

drear. 
Which  man    hath  abandoned  from 

famine  and  fear; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  in- 
habit alone. 
With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawn- 
ing stone ; 
Where  grass,   nor  herb,   nor  shrub 

takes  root. 
Save  poisonous  thorns    that  pierce 

the  foot : 
And  the  bitter-melon,  for  food  and 

drink, 
Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt-lake's 

brink; 
A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river 

glides, 
;N'or  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides; 


PRIOR. 


439 


Where     sedgy    pool,    nor    bubbling 

fount, 
Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 
Appears,  to  refresh  the  aching  eye; 
But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning 

sky,  [round, 

And  the  blank  horizon,  roun  I  and 
Spread  —  void    of    living    sight    or 

sound. 

And   here,    while   the   night-winds 
round  me  sigh, 


And  the  stars  turn  bright  in  the  mid- 
night sky. 

As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone. 

Like  p]lijah  at  Horeb's  cave,  alone, 

''A  still  small  voice"  comes  through 
the  wild 

(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful 
child). 

Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath, 
and  fear,  — 

Saying  —  Man  is  distant,  but  Grod  is 
near! 


Matthew  Prior. 


[From  Solomon.] 
THE   WISE  MAN  IN  DARKNESS. 

Happy  the  mortal  man,  who  now  at 
last 

Has  through  the  doleful  vale  of  mis- 
ery passed ; 

Who  to  his  destined  stage  has  carried 
on 

The  tedious  load,  and  laid  his  bur- 
dens down ; 

Whom  the  cut  brass  or  mounded  mar- 
ble shows 

"Victor  o'er  life  and  all  her  train  of 
woes. 

He  happier  yet,  who,  privileged  by 
fate 

To  shorter  labor,  and  a  lighter 
weight. 

Received  but  yesterday  the  gift  of 
breath. 

Ordered  to-morrow  to  return  to 
death. 

But  oh !  beyond  description,  happiest 
he 

Who  ne'er  must  roll  on  life's  tumul- 
tuous sea ; 

Who  with  blessed  freedom  from  the 
general  doom 

Exempt,  must  never  force  the  teem- 
ing- womb, 


Nor  see  the  sun,  nor  sink  into  the 

tomb. 
Who  breathes  must  suffer;  and  who 

thinks  must  mourn ; 
And  he  alone  is  blest  who  ne'er  was 

born. 


[From  Solomon.\ 
THE   WISE  MAN  IN  LIGHT. 

Supreme,  all- wise,  eternal  Poten- 
tate! 

Sole  Author,  sole  Dispenser  of  our 
fate! 

Enthroned  in  light  and  immor- 
tality! 

Whom  no  man  fully  sees,  and  none 
can  see! 

Original  of  beings!  Power  divine! 

Since  that  I  live,  and  that  I  think,  is 
Thine; 

Benign  Creator,  let  Thy  plastic  hand 

Dispose  its  own  effect.  Let  Thy  com- 
mand 

Restore,  great  Father,  Thy  instructed 
son; 

And  in  my  act,  may  Thy  great  will 
be  done! 


440 


PROCTER. 


Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 


I 


ONE  BY  ONE. 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing, 
One  by  one  the  moments  fall ; 

Some  are  coming,  -some  are  going, 
Do  not  strive  to  grasp  them  all. 

One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee, 
Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each, 

Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, 
Learn  thou  first  what  these  can 
teach. 

One  by  one  (bright  gifts  from  Heav- 
en) 

Joys  are  sent  thee  here  below ; 
Take  them  readily  when  given, 

Eeady  too  to  let  them  go. 

One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall    meet 
thee. 

Do  not  fear  an  armed  band ; 
One  will  fade  as  others  greet  thee ; 

Shadows  passing  through  the  land. 

Do  not  look  at  life's  long  sorrow; 

See  how  small  each  moment's  pain, 
God  will  help  thee  for  to-morrow, 

So  each  day  begin  again. 

Every  hour  that  fleets  so  slowly 
Has  its  task  to  do  or  bear; 

Luminous  the  crown,  and  holy. 
When  each  gem  is  set  with  care. 

Do  not  linger  with  regretting. 
Or  for  passing  hours  despond ; 

Nor,  the  daily  toil  forgetting, 
Look  too  eagerly  beyond. 

Hours  are  golden  links,  God's  token. 
Reaching  heaven;  but  one  by  one 

Take  them,  lest  the  chain  be  broken 
Ere  the  pilgrimage  be  done. 


JUDGE  NOT. 

Judge  not ;  the  workings  of  his  brain 
And  of  his  heart  thou  canst  not 


What  looks  to  thy  dim  eyes  a  stain. 

In  God's  pure  light  may  only  be 
A  scar,  brought  from  some  well- won 

field. 
Where  thou  wouldst  only  faint  and 

yield. 

The  look,  the  air,  that  frets  thy  sight, 
May  be  a  token,  that  below 

The  soul  has  closed  in  deadly  fight 
With  some  infernal  fiery  foe. 

Whose  glance  would  scorch  thy  smil- 
ing grace, 

And  cast  thee  shuddering  on  thy  face ! 

The  fall  thou  darest  to  despise, — 
May  be  the  angel's  slackened  hand 

Has  suffered  it,  that  he  may  rise 
And  take  a  firmer,  surer  stand ; 

Or,  trusting  less  to  earthly  things, 

May    henceforth    learn    to    use    his 
wings. 

And  judge  none  lost;  but  wait  and 
see. 
With  hopeful  pity,  not  disdain ; 
The  depth  of  the  abyss  may  be 
The    measure    of    the    height    of 
pain 
And  love  and  glory  that  may  raise 
This  soul  to  God  in  after  days ! 


THANKFULNESS. 


My 


God,  I  thank  Thee  who  hast 

made 
The  earth  so  bright ; 
So  full  of  splendor  and  of  joy, 

Beauty  and  light ; 
So  many  glorious  things  are  here. 
Noble  and  right! 

I  thank  Thee,  too,  that  Thou  hast 
made 

Joy  to  abound; 
So  many  gentle  thoughts  and  deeds 

Circling  us  round. 
That  in  the  darkest  spot  of  earth 

Some  love  is  found. 


PROCTER, 


441 


I  thank  Thee  more  that  all  our  joy 

Is  touched  with  pain; 
That  shadows  fall  on  brightest  hours ; 

That  thorns  remain ; 
So  that  earth's    bliss    may  be    our 
guide, 

And  not  our  chain. 

For  Thoii  who  knowest,  Lord,  how 
soon 

Our  weak  heart  clings, 
Hast  given  us  joys,  tender  and  true, 

Yet  all  with  wings. 
So  that  we  see,  gleaming  on  high. 

Diviner  things ! 
• 
I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou  hast 
kept 

The  best  in  store ; 
We  have  enough,  yet  not  too  much 

To  long  for  more : 
A  yearning  for  a  deeper  peace, 

Not  known  before. 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  here  our 
souls 

Though  amply  blest, 
Can  never  find,  although  they  seek, 

A  perfect  rest, — 
Nor  ever  shall,  until  they  lean 

On  Jesus'  breast! 


A  LOST  CHORD. 

Seated  one  day  at  the  organ, 
I  was  weary  and  ill  at  ease. 

And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 
Over  the  noisy  keys. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  was  playing, 
Or  what  I  was  dreaming  then ; 

But  I  struck  one  chord  of  music. 
Like  the  sound  of  a  great  Amen. 

It  flooded  the  crimson  twilight. 
Like  the  close  of  an  angel's  psalm. 

And  it  lay  on  my  fevered  spirit 
With  a  touch  of  infinite  calm. 

It  quieted  pain  and  sorrow. 
Like  love  overcoming  strife ; 

It  seemed  the  harmonious  echo 
From  our  discordant  life. 


It  linked  all  perplexed  meanings 

Into  one  perfect  peace. 
And  trembled  away  into  silence 

As  if  it  were  loth  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 
That  one  lost  chord  divine. 

That  came  from  the  soul  of  the  organ, 
And  entered  into  mine. 

It  may  be  that  death's  bright  angel 
Will  speak  in  that  chord  again, 

It  may  be  that  only  in  heaven 
I  shall  hear  that  grand  Amen. 


TOO  LATE. 

Hush  !  speak  low ;  tread  softly; 

Draw  the  sheet  aside ;  — 
Yes,  she  does  look  peaceful; 

With  that  smile  she  died. 

Yet  stem  want  and  sorrow 

Even  now  you  trace 
On  the  wan,  worn  features 

Of  the  still  white  face. 

Restless,  helpless,  hopeless. 
Was  her  bitter  part ;  — 

Now, —  how  still  the  violets 
Lie  upon  her  heart  1 

She  who  toiled  and  labored 

For  her  daily  bread ; 
See  the  velvet  hangings 

Of  this  stately  bed. 

Yes,  they  did  forgive  her; 

Brought  her  home  at  last; 
Strove  to  cover  over 

Their  relentless  past. 

Ah,  they  would  have  given 
Wealth,  and  home,  and  pride, 

To  see  her  just  look  happy 
Once  before  she  died ! 

They  strove  hard  to  please  her, 
But,  when  death  is  near. 

All  you  know  is  deadened, 
Hope,  and  joy,  and  fear. 


442 


PROCTER. 


And  besides,  one  sorrow 
Deeper  still, —  one  pain 

Was  beyond  them :  healing 
Came  to-day, —  in  vain ! 

If  she  had  but  lingered 
Just  a  few  hours  more ; 

Or  had  this  letter  reached  her 
Just  one  day  before ! 

I  can  almost  pity 

Even  him  to-day ; 
Though  he  let  this  anguish 

Eat  her  heart  away. 

Yet  she  never  blamed  him :  — 
One  day  you  shall  know 

How  this  sorrow  happened ; 
It  was  long  ago. 

I  have  read  the  letter ; 

Many  a  weary  year, 
For  one  word  she  hungered, — 

There  are  thousands  here. 

If  she  could  but  hear  it, 
Could  but  understand; 

See, —  I  put  the  letter 
In  her  cold  white  hand. 

Even  these  words,  so  longed  for, 

Do  not  stir  her  rest ; 
Well,  I  should  not  murmur, 

For  God  judges  best. 

She  needs  no  more  pity, — 

But  I  mourn  his  fate, 
When  he  hears  his  letter 

Came  a  day  too  late. 


CLEANSING  FIRES. 

Let  thy  gold  be  cast  in  the  furnace, 

Thy  red  gold,  precious  and  bright, 
Do  not  fear  the  hungry  fire. 

With  its  caverns  of  burning  light ; 
And  thy  gold  shall  return  more  pre- 
cious. 

Free  from  every  spot  and  stain ; 
For  gold  must  be  tried  by  fire, 

As  a  heart  must  be  tried  by  pain ! 


In  the  cruel  fire  of  sorrow, 

Cast  thy  heart,  do  not  faint  or  wail; 
Let  thy  hand  be  firm  and  steady, 

Do  not  let  thy  spirit  quail : 
But  wait  till  the  trial  is  over, 

And  take  thy  heart  again ; 
For  as  gold  is  tried  by  fire, 

So  a  lieart  must  be  tried  by  pain ! 

I  shall  know  by  the  gleam  and  glitter 

Of  the  golden  chain  you  wear. 
By  your  heart's  calm  strength  in  lov- 
ing, 

Of  the  fire  they  have  had  to  bear. 
Beat  on,  true  lieart,  forever ; 

Shine  bright,  strong  golden  chaia ; 
And  bless  the  cleansing  fire, 

And  the  furnace  of  living  pain! 


A   WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 
Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 

Before  I  let  thy  future  give 
Color  and  form  to  mine. 

Before  I  peril  all  for  thee. 
Question  thy  soul  to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet  ? 
Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free 

As    that  which  I  can  pledge  to 
thee? 

Does    there    within    thy    dimmest 
dreams 
A  possible  future  shine, 
Wherein  thy  life  could   henceforth 
breathe, 
Untouched,  unshared  by  mi^je  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost, 
Oh,  tell  me  before  all  is  lost. 

Look  deeper  still.     If  thou  canst  feel 

Within  thy  inmost  soul, 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back 

While  I  have  staked  the  whole ; 
Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow, 

But  in  true  mercy  tell  me  so. 


PROCTER. 


443 


Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still  ? 
Speak  now, — lest  at  some  future  day 

My  whole  life  wither  and  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 
The  demon-spirit  Change, 

Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 
On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? 

It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone, — 
But  shield  my  heart  against  thy 
own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one 
day 
And  answer  to  my  claim, 
That  fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake, 

Not  thou, — had  been  to  blame  ? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus ;  but 
thou 
Wilt  surely  warn  and  save  me  now. 

Nay,  answer  not, —  I  dare  not  hear, 
The  words  would  come  too  late ; 

Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 
So,  comfort  thee,  my  fate, — 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall, — 
Remember,  I  would  risk  it  all  I 


INCOMPLETENESS. 

Nothing  resting  in  its  own  complete- 
ness 

Can  have  worth  or  beauty :  but  alone 

Because  it  leads  and  tends  to  farther 
sweetness, 

Fuller,  higher,  deeper  than  its  own. 

Spring's  real  glory  dwells  not  in  the 

meaning. 
Gracious  though  it  be,  of  her  blue 

hours; 
But  is  hidden  in  her  tender  leaning 
To  the  summer's  richer  wealth  of 

flowers. 

Dawn  is  fair,  because  the  mists  fade 

slowly 
Into  day,  which   floods   the  world 

with  light; 


Twilight's  mystery  is  so  sweet  and 

holy 
Just  because  it  ends  in  starry  night. 

Childhood's      smiles      unconscious 

graces  borrow 
From  strife,  that  in  a  far-off  future 

lies; 
And  angel  glances  (veiled  now  by 

life's  sorrow) 
Draw  our  hearts  to   some    beloved 

eyes. 

Life  is  only  bright  when  it  proceedeth 
Towards  a  truer,  deeper  life  above ; 
Human  love  is  sweetest  when  it  lead- 

eth 
To  a  more  divine  and  perfect  love. 

Learn  the  mystery  of  progression 
duly: 

Do  not  call  each  glorious  change,  de- 
cay; 

But  know  we  only  hold  our  treasures 
truly, 

When  it  seems  as  if  they  passed 
away. 

Nor  dare  to  blame  God's  gifts  for  in- 
completeness ; 

In  that  want  their  beauty  lies :  they 
roll 

Towards  some  infinite  depth  of  love 
and  sweetness. 

Bearing  onward  man's  reluctant 
soul. 


STRIVE,    WAIT,  AND  PRAY. 

Strive  :  yet  I  do  not  promise 

The  prize  you  dream  of  to-day 
Will  not  fade  when   you  think  to 
grasp  it, 

And  melt  in  your  hand  away; 
But  another  and  holier  treasure, 

You  would  now  perchance  disdain, 
Will  come  when  your  toil  is  over. 

And  pay  you  for  all  your  pain. 

Wait ;  yet  I  do  not  tell  you 
The  hour  you  long  for  now 

Will  not  come  with  its  radiance  van- 
ished, 
And  a  shadow  upon  its  brow; 


444 


PROCTER, 


Yet  far  through  the  misty  future, 
With  a  crown  of  starry  light, 

An  hour  of  joy  you  know  not 
Is  winging  her  silent  flight. 

Pray ;  though  the  gift  you  ask  for 
May  never  comfort  your  fears. 


May  never  repay  your  pleading, 
Yet     pray,    and     with     hopeful 
tears ; 

An  answer,  not  that  you  long  for, 
But  diviner,  will  come  one  day; 

Your  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see  it, 
Yet  strive,  and  wait,  and  pray. 


Bryan  Waller  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall). 


LIFE. 

We  are  born;  we  laugh;  we  weep; 

We  love ;  we  droop ;  we  die ! 
Ah  I  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Why  do  we  live  or  die  ? 
Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 

Alas,  not  I ! 

■V\"hy  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
"Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  things  that  die  ? 

We  toil  —  through  pain  and  wrong; 

We  fight  —  and  fly ; 
We  love;   we   lose;    and    then,    ere 
long. 

Stone-dead  we  lie. 
O  Life!  is  all  thy  song! 

"  Endure  and— die?" 


A  PETITION  TO  TIME. 

Touch  us  gently.  Time! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream  I 
Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three  — 
(One  is  lost  —  an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead !) 

Touch  us  gently.  Time ! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings ; 
Our  ambition,  our  content. 

Lies  in  simple  things. 


Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
O'er  life's  dim  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime ; 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 


LOVE  ME  IF  I  LIVE. 

Love  me  if  Hive! 

Love  me  if  I  die! 
What  to  me  is  life  or  death, 

So  that  thou  be  nigh  ? 

Once  I  loved  thee  rich, 
Now  I  love  thee  poor; 

Ah !  what  is  there  I  could  not 
For  thy  sake  endure  ? 

Kiss  me  for  my  love ! 

Pay  me  for  my  pain  I 
Come !  Eoid  murmur  in  my  ear 

How  thou  lov'st  again! 


THE  SEA. 

The  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  sea! 
The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free ! 
Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 
It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions 

round! 
It  plays  with  the  clouds ;  it  mocks  the 

skies ; 
Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea !    I'm  on  the  sea ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue 

below, 
And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go; 


PROCTER. 


446 


If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake 

the  deep, 
What  matter  ?  /  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  oh,  how  I  love  to  ride 

On  the  tierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide. 

When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the 

moon. 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune. 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou' west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore. 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and 

more, 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy 

breast,  [nest ; 

Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's 
And  a  mother  sheiyas,  and  is,  to  me; 
For  I  was  bom  on  the  open  sea! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the 
morn. 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  bom ; 

And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  por- 
poise rolled. 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs 
of  gold;  [wild 

And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry 

As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child! 

I've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and 

strife. 
Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life. 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to 

range, 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for 

change ; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
ShaU  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded 

sea! 


HISTORY  OF  A  LIFE. 

Day  dawned: — ^within  a  curtained 

room. 
Filled  to  f aintness  with  perfume, 
wi  lady  lay  at  point  of  doom. 

Day  closed;  —  a  child  had  seen  the 

light; 
But,  for  the  lady  fair  and  bright. 
She  rested  in  undreaming  night. 


Spring  rose;   the  lady's   grave  was 

green; 
And  near  it,  oftentimes,  was  seen 
A  gentle  boy  with  thoughtful  mien. 

Years  fled ;  —  he  wore  a  manly  face, 
And  struggled  in  the  world's  rough 

race, 
And  won  at  last  a  lofty  place. 

And  then  he  died !  Behold  before  ye 
Humanity's  poor  sum  and  story; 
Life, —Death, —  and  all  that  is  of 
glory. 


A  PRA  YER  IN  SICKNESS. 

Sexd  down  Thy  winged  angel,  God! 

Amid  this  night  so  wild ; 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we 
watch. 

And  breathe  upon  our  child! 

She  lies  upon  her  pillow,  pale, 
And  moans  within  her  sleep. 

Or  wakeneth  with  a  patient  smile, 
And  striveth  not  to  weep. 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 

She  is,  we  know  too  well. 
And  dearer  to  her  parents'  hearts 

Than  om:  weak  words  can  tell. 

We  love  —  we  watch  throughout  the 
night. 
To  aid,  when  need  may  be; 
We  hope — and  have  despaired,  at 
times ; 
But  now  we  turn  to  Thee! 

Send  down  Thy  sweet-souled  angel, 
God! 

Amid  the  darkness  wild ; 
And  bid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night. 

And  heal  our  gentle  child ! 


THE  POETS  SONG  TO  HIS   WIFE. 

How  many  summers,  love, 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
How  many  days,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine  ? 


446 


PROCTOR, 


Tiine,  like  the  winged  wind 
Wlien  't  bends  the  flowers, 

Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 
To  count  the  hours ! 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loath, 

On  thee  he  leaves ; 
Some  lines  of  care  round  both 

Perhaps  he  weaves ; 
Some  fears,  —  a  soft  regret 

For  joys  scarce  known ; 
Sweet  looks  we  half  forget;  — 

All  else  is  flown ! 

Ah  I  —  With  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing! 
Look,  where  our  children  start. 

Like  sudden  spring ! 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low 

Like  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  1  owe 

To  thee  and  time ! 


SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER  BREATH. 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath, 

Gentle  death ! 
Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife. 

Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  life! 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day,  — 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blos- 


Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away. 
Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom! 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear! 
Bear  her  perfect  soul  above. 

Seraph     of     the     skies,  —  sweet 
love! 
Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth ; 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth: 

Take  her,  then,  forevermore,  — 
Forever  —  evermore,  — 


/  DIE  FOR   THY  SWEET  LOVE. 

I  DEE  for  thy  sweet  love!  The  ground 
Not  panteth  so  for  summer  rain. 

As  I  for  one  soft  look  of  thine ; 
And  yet, —  I  sigh  in  vain ! 

A  hundred  men  are  near  thee  now ; 

Each    one,     perhaps,    surpassing 
me; 
But  who  doth  feel  a  thousandth  part 

Of  what  I  feel  for  thee  ? 

They  look  on  thee,  as  men  will  look, 
Who  round  the  wild  world  laugh 
and  rove; 

I  only  think  how  sweet  'twould  be 
To  die  for  thy  sweet  love! 


Edna  Dean  Proctor. 


BUT  HEAVEN,   O  LORD,  I  CAN- 
NOT LOSE. 

Now  summer  finds  her  perfect  prime ! 

Sweet  blows  the  wind  from  west- 
em  calms ; 
On  every  bower  red  roses  climb ; 

The    meadows    sleep  in  mingled 
balms. 
Nor  stream,  nor  bank  the  wayside  by. 

But  lilies  float  and  daisies  throng. 
Nor  space  of  blue  and  sunny  sky 

That  is  not  cleft  with  soaring  song. 


O  flowery  morns,  O  tuneful  eves, 

Fly  swift!  my  soul  ye  cannot  fill ! 
Bring  the  ripe  fruit,  the   garnered 
sheaves. 
The  drifting  snows  on  plain  and 
hill. 
Alike  to  me,  fall  frosts  and  dews; 


Warm  hands  to-day  are  clasped  in 
mine; 
Fond  hearts  my  mirth  oi  mourning 
share; 


PROCTOR. 


447 


And,  over  hope's  horizon  line, 

The  future  daAvns,  serenely  fair; 
Yet  still,  though  fervent  vow  denies, 

I  know  the  rapture  will  not  stay; 
Some  wind  of   grief  or  doubt  will 
rise 

And  turn  my  rosy  sky  to  gray. 
I  shall  awake,  in  rainy  mom. 

To  find    my  heart  left  lone  and 
drear; 
Thus,  half  in  sadness,  half  in  scorn, 

I  let  my  life  burn  on  as  clear 
Though  friends  grow  cold  or  fond 

love  woos ; 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose ! 

In  golden  hours,  the  angel  Peace 

Comes  down  and  broods  me  with 
her  wings : 
I  gain  from  sorrow  sweet  release ; 

I  mate  me  with  divinest  things; 
When    shapes   of   guilt  and  gloom 
arise 

And  far  the  radiant  angel  flees,  — 
My  song  is  lost  in  mournful  sighs, 

My  wine  of  triumph  left  but  lees. 
In  vain  for  me  her  pinions  shine, 

And  pure,  celestial  days  begin: 
Earth's  passion-flowers  I  still  must 
twine. 

Nor  braid  one  beauteous  lily  in. 
Ah !  is  it  good  or  ill  I  choose  ? 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  I 

So  wait  I.    Every  day  that  dies 
With  flush  and  fragrance  bom  of 
June, 
I  know  shall  more  resplendent  rise 
Where  summer  needs  nor  sun  nor 
moon, 
And  every  bud  on  love's  low  tree, 
Whose  mocking  crimson  flames  and 
falls, 
In  fullest  flower  I  yet  shall  see 

High  blooming  by  the  jasper  walls. 
Nay,  every  sin  that  dims  my  days. 
And   wild   regrets   that   veil   the 
•    sun. 
Shall   fade    before    those    dazzling 

rays, 
'  And  my  long  glory  be  begun! 
Let  the  years  come  to  bless  or  bruise ; 
Thy  heaven,   O  Lord,  I  shall  not 
lose  I 


CONTOOCOOK  RIVER, 

Of  all  the  streams  that  seek  the  sea 
By  mountain  pass,  or  sunny  lea. 
Now  where  is  one  that  dares  to  vie 
With  clear   Contoocook,  swift  and 

shy? 
Monadnock's   child,  of   snow-drifts 

born. 
The  snows  of  many  a  winter  mom, 
And  many  a  midnight  dark  and  still, 
Heaped  higher,  whiter,  day  by  day, 
To  melt,  at  last,  with  suns  of  May, 
And  steal  in  tiny  fall  and  rill, 
Down  the  long  slopes  of  granite  gray: 
Or, filter  slow  through  seam  and  cleft. 
When  frost  and  storm  the  rock  have 

reft, 
To  bubble  cool  in  sheltered  springs 
Where  the   lone   red-bird    dips  his 

wings. 
And  the  tired  fox  that  gains  its  brink 
Stoops,  safe  from  hound  and  horn,  to 

drink. 
And  rills  and  springs,  grown  broad 

and  deep. 
Unite  through   gorge   and   glen  to 

sweep 
In  roaring  brooks  that  turn  and  take 
The  over-floods  of  pool  and  lake, 
Till,  to  the  fields,  the  hills  deliver 
Contoocook' s  bright  and  brimming 

river  I 

O  have  you   seen,  from   Hillsboro' 

town 
How  fast  its  tide  goes  hurrying  down, 
With  rapids  now,  and  now  a  leap 
Past  giant  boulders,  black  and  steep. 
Plunged  in  mid  water,  fain  to  keep 
Its  current  from  the  meadows  green  ? 
But,  flecked  with   foam,  it  speeds 

along; 
And  not  the  birch  trees'  silvery  sheen. 
Nor  the  soft  lull  of  whispering  pines. 
Nor  hermit  thrushes,  fluting  low. 
Nor  fems,  nor  cardinal  flowers  that 

glow 
Where  clematis,  the  fairy,  twines. 
Can  stay  its  course,  or  still  its  song; 
Ceaseless  it  flows  till,  round  its  bed. 
The  vales  of  Henniker  are  spread. 
Their  banks  all  set  with  golden  grain, 
Or  stately  trees  whose  vistas  gleam  — 
A  double  forest  in  the  stream; 


448 


PROCTOR. 


And,    winding    'neath    the     pine- 
crowned  hill 
That  overhangs  the  village  plain, 
By  sunny  reaches,  broad  and  still, 
It  nears  the  bridge  that  spans  its 

tide  — 
The  bridge  whose  arches  low  and  wide 
It  ripples  through — and  should  you 

lean 
A  moment  there,  no  lovelier  scene 
On  England's  Wye,  or  Scotland's  Tay, 
Would  charm  your  gaze  a  summer's 
day. 

And  on  it  glides,  by  grove  and  glen. 
Dark  woodlands  and  the  homes  of 

men. 
With  now  a  ferry,  now  a  mill: 
Till,  deep  and  calm,  its  waters  fill 
The  channels  round  that  gem  of  isles 
Sacred  to  captives'  woes  and  wiles. 
And,  gleeful  half,  half  eddying  back. 
Blend  with  the  lordly  Merrimac : 
And  Merrimac  wliose  tide  is  strong 
Rolls  gently,  with  its  waves  along, 
Monadnock's   stream  that,  coy  and 

fair, 
Has  come,  its  larger  life  to  share, 
And,  to  the  sea,  doth  safe  deliver 
Contoocook's  bright  and  brimming 

river  I 


DAILY  DYING. 

Not  in  a  moment  drops  the  rose 
That  in  a  summer  garden  grows: 
A  robin  sings  beneath  the  tree 
A  twilight  song  of  ecstasy. 
And  the  red,  red  leaves  at  its  fragrant 
heart, 
Trembling  so  in  delicious  pain, 
Fall  to  the  ground  with  a  sudden 
start, 
And  the  gi-ass  is  gay  with  a  crim- 
son stain ; 
And  a  honey-bee,  out  of  the  fields 

of  clover, 
Heavily  flying  the  garden  over, 
Brushes  the  stem  as  it  passes  by, 
And  others  fall  where  the  heart- 
leaves  lie, 
And  air  and  dew,  ere  the  night  is 

done, 
Have  stolen  the  petals,  every  one. 


And  simset's  gleam  of  gorgeous  dyes 
Ne'er  with  one  shadow  fades  away, 

But  slowly  o'er  those  radiant  skies 
There  steals  the  evening  cold  and 

gray. 
And  amber  and  violet  linger  still 
When  stars  are  over  the  eastern  hill. 

The  maple  does  not  shed  its  leaves 
In  one  tempestuous  scarlet  rain. 
But    softly,  when   the    south  wind 
grieves. 
Slow-wandering   over   wood    and 

plain. 
One  by  one  they  waver  through 
The  Indian  Summer's  hazy  blue. 
And  drop,  at  last,  on  the  forest 

mould. 
Coral  and  ruby  and  burning  gold. 

Our  death  is  gradual,  like  to  these: 

We  die  with  every  waning  day ; 
There  is  no  waft  of  sorrow's  breeze 
But   bears    some   heart-leaf  slow 

away! 
Up  and  on  to  the  vast  To  Be 
Our  life  is  going  eternally ! 
Less  of  earth  than  we  had  last  year 
Throbs  in  your  veins  and  throbs  in 
mine. 
But  the  way  to  heaven  is  growing 
clear, 
While  the  gates  of  the  city  fairer 

shine, 
And  the  day  that  our  latest  treas- 
ures flee. 
Wide  they  will  open  for  you  and 
me! 


HEROES. 

The  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 
Have   died   by  Neptune's  ruined 
shrines, 
And  her  hull  is  the  drift  of  the  deep 
sea-floor. 
Though  shaped  of  Pelion's  tallest 
pines. 
You  may  seek  her  crew  on  every  isle 

Fair  in  the  foam  of  ^gean  seas, 
But,  out  of  their  rest,  no  charm  can 
wile 
Jason  and  Orpheus  and  Hercules. 


PROCTOR, 


449 


And  Priam's  wail  is  heard  no  more 
By  windy  Ilion's  sea-built  walls; 
Nor  great  Achilles,  stained  with  gore, 
Shouts,  "O   ye  Gods!  'tis  Hector 
falls!'' 
On  Ida's  mount  is  the  shining  snow, 
But  Jove  has  gone  from  its  brow 
away; 
And  red  on  the  plain  the  poppies 
grow 
Where  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan 
fought  that  day. 

Mother    Earth!     Are    the     heroes 
dead  ? 
Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years 
no  more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  pop- 
pies red  [yore  ? 
All  that  is  left  of    the  brave  of 
Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus 
fought  ? 
Far  in  the   young  world's  misty 
dawn? 
Or  to  teach  as  the  gray-haired  Nestor 
taught  ? 
Mother   Earth!    are    the    heroes 
gone  ? 

Gone  ?    In  a  grander  form  they  rise; 
Dead  ?    We  may  clasp  their  hands 
in  ours ;  [eyes, 

And  catch  the  light  of  their  clearer 
And  wreathe  their  brows  with  im- 
mortal flowers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  is  done 
'T  is  the  pulse  of  a  hero's  heart  is 
stirred ; 
Wherever  Right  has  a  triumph  won 
There  are  the  heroes'  voices  heard. 

Their  armor  rings  on  a  fairer  field 
Than  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan 
fiercely  trod ; 
For  Freedom's    sword  is  the  blade 
they  wield, 
And  the  light  above  is  the  smile  of 
of  God. 


So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away ; 
For  the  heroes  live  and  the  sky  is 
bright, 
And  the  world  is  a  braver  world 
to-day. 


TO  MOSCOW. 

Across  the  steppe  we  journeyed, 

The  brown,  fir-darkened  plain 
That  rolls  to  east  and  rolls  to  west, 

Broad  as  the  billowy  main, 
When  lo !  a  sudden  splendor 
Came  shimmering  through  the  air, 
As  if  the  clouds  should  melt  and  leave 

The  heights  of  heaven  bare, — 
A  maze  of  rainbow  domes  and  spires 

Full  glorious  on  the  sky, 
With  wafted  chimes  from  many  a 
-  tower 

As  the  south-wind  went  by. 
And  a  thousand  crosses  lightly  hung 

That  shone  like  morning  stars, — 
'Twas  the  Kremlin  wall!  'Twas  Mos- 
cow,— 

The  jewel  of  the  Czars  I 


SUNSET  m  MOSCOW, 

O  THE  splendor  of  the  city. 

When  the  sun  is  in  the  west! 
Ruddy  gold  on  spire  and  belfry, 

Gold  on  Moskwa's  placid  breast; 
Till  the  twilight  soft  and.  sombre 

Falls  on  wall  and  street  and  square, 
And  the  domes  and  towers  in  shadow 

Stand  like  silent  monks  at  prayer. 

'Tis  the  hour  for  dream  and  legend: 

Meet  me  by  the  Sacred  Gate! 
We  will  watch  the  crowd  go  by  us ; 

We  will  stories  old  relate ; 
Till  the  bugle  of  the  barracks 

Calls  the  soldier  to  repose, 
And  from  off  the  steppe  to  northward 

Chill  the  wind  of  midnight  blows. 


450  QUARLES. 


Francis  Quarles. 

THE    WORLD. 

She's  empty:  hark!  she  sounds:  there's  nothing  there 

But  noise  to  fill  thy  ear ; 
Thy  vain  inquiry  can  at  length  but  find 

A  blast  of  murmuring  wind : 
It  is  a  cask  that  seems  as  full  as  fair, 

But  merely  tunned  with  air. 
Fond  youth,  go  build  thy  hopes  on  better  grounds ; 

The  soul  that  vainly  founds 
Her  joys  upon  this  world,  but  feeds  on  empty  sounds. 

She's  empty:  hark!  she  sounds;  there's  nothing  in't: 

The  spark-engendering  flint 
Shall  sooner  melt,  and  hardest  raunce  shall  first 

Dissolve  and  quench  thy  thirst, 
Ere  this  false  world  shall  still  thy  stormy  breast 

With  smooth-faced  calms  of  rest. 
Thou  mayst  as  well  expect  meridian  light 

From  shades  of  black-mouthed  night, 
As  in  this  empty  world  to  find  a  full  delight. 

She's  empty:  hark!  she  sounds:  'tis  void  and  vast; 

What  if  some  flattering  blast 
Of  fatuous  honor  should  perchance  be  there, 

And  whisper  in  thine  ear  ? 
It  is  but  wind,  and  blows  but  where  it  list. 

And  vanisheth  like  mist. 
Poor  honor  earth  can  give !    What  generous  mind 

Would  be  so  base  to  bind 
Her  heaven-bred  soul,  a  slave  to  serve  a  blast  of  wind  ? 

She's  empty;  hark!  she  sounds:  'tis  but  a  ball 

For  fools  to  play  withal ; 
The  painted  film  but  of  a  stronger  bubble. 

That's  lined  with  silken  trouble. 
It  is  a  world  whose  work  and  recreation 

Is  vanity  and  vexation ; 
A  hag,  repaired  with  vice-complexioned  paint, 

A  quest-house  of  complaint. 
It  is  a  saint,  a  fiend ;  worse  fiend  when  most  a  saint. 

She's  empty:  hark!  she  sounds:  'tis  vain  and  void. 

What's  here  to  be  enjoyed 
But  grief  and  sickness,  and  large  bills  of  sorrow, 

Drawn  now  and  crossed  to-morrow  ? 
Or,  what  are  men  but  puffs  of  dying  breath. 

Revived  with  living  death  ? 
Fond  youth,  O  build  thy  hopes  on  surer  grounds 

Than  what  dull  flesh  propounds : 
Trust  not  this  hollow  world;  she's  empty:  hark!  she  sounds. 


QUARLE8, 


451 


ON  MAN. 

At  out  creation,  but  the  Word  was 
said; 
And  we  were  made; 
No  sooner  were,  but  our  false  hearts 
did  swell 
With  pride,  and  fell: 
How  slight  is  man !  At  what  an  easy 
cost 
He's  made  and  lost! 


GRIEF  FOR   THE  LOSS  OF  THE 
DEAD. 

I  MUST  lament,  Nature  commands  it 

so: 
The  more  I  strive  with  tears,  the 

more  they  flow; 
These  eyes  have   just,  nay,  double 

cause  of  moan ; 
They  weep  the  common  loss,  they 

weep  their  own. 
He  sleeps  indeed ;  then  give  me  leave 

to  weep 
Tears,  fully  answerable  to  his  sleep. 


ON  SIN. 


How,  how  am  I  deceived !  I  thought 
my  bed 
Had  entertained  a  fair,  a  beauteous 
bride: 
Oh,  how  were  my  believmg  thoughts 

misled 
To  a  false  beauty  lying  by  my  side ! 
Sweet  were  her  kisses,  full  of  choice 
delight;  [night: 

My  fancy  found  no  difference  in  the 
I  thought  they  were  true  joys  that 
thus  had  led 


My   darkened  soul,   but   they  were 

false  alarms ; 
I  thought  I'd  had  fair  Rachel  in  my 

bed. 
But  I  had  blear-eyed  Leah  in   my 

arms; 
How  seeming  sweet  is  sin  when 

clothed  in  light, 
But,    when    discovered,    what   a 

loathed  delight. 


ON   THE  LIFE  OF  MAN. 

Our  life  is  nothing  but  a  winter's 

day; 
Some  only  break  their  fasts,  and  so, 

away : 
Others  stay  dinner,  and  depart  full 

fed; 
The  deepest  age  but  sups  and  goes  to 

bed: 
He's  most  in  debt  that  Hngers  out 

the  day ; 
Who  dies  betimes,  has  less;  and  less 

to  pay. 


ON  DOVES  AND  SERPENTS. 

We  must  have  doves  and  serpents  in 

our  heart; 
But  how  they  must  be  marshalled, 

there's  the  art. 
They  must  agree,  and    not  be   far 

asunder; 
The  dove  must  hold  the  wily  serpent 

under ; 
Their  natures  teach  what  places  they 

must  keep, 
The  dove  can  fly;  the  serpent  only 

creep. 


452 


BALEIGH. 


Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


THE  LIE. 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest, 
Upon  a  thankless  errand ; 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best; 
The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant. 

Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 

And  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows, 
And  shines  like  painted  wood ; 

Go,  tell  the  church  it  shows 
What's  good,  but  does  no  good. 

If  court  and  church  reply. 

Give  court  and  church  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates,  they  live 
Acting,  but  oh !  their  actions 

iN'ot  loved,  unless  they  give; 

Not  strong,  but  by  their  factions. 

If  potentates  reply. 

Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
That  rule  affairs  of  state. 

Their  purpose  is  ambjtion; 
Their  practice  only  hate. 

And  if  they  do  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  those  that  brave  it  most. 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 

Who,  in  their  greatest  cost, 
Seek  nothing  but  commending. 

And  if  they  make  reply. 

Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion; 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust ; 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion; 

Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust : 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  he. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth ; 

Tell  honor  how  it  alters; 
Tell  beauty  that  it  blasteth; 

Tell  favor  that  she  falters; 
And  as  they  do  reply. 
Give  every  one  the  He. 


Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  fickle  points  of  niceness; 

Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness : 

And  if  they  do  reply. 

Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness; 

Tell  skill  it  is  pretension; 
Tell  charity  of  coldness ; 

Tell  law  it  is  contention: 
And  if  they  yield  reply, 
Then  give  them  still  the  lie, 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness ; 

Tell  nature  of  decay ; 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness; 

Tell  justice  of  delay: 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  not  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming: 
Tell  schools  they  lack  profoundness, 

And  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  arts  and  schools  reply, 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it's  fled  the  city; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth; 
Tell  manhood  shakes  off  pity; 

Tell  virtue,  least  preferretL 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So,  when  thou  hast,  as  i 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing. 
Although  to  give  the  lie. 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing; 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will. 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


THE  SILENT  LOVER. 

Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods 

and  strealms, 
The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep 

are  dumb ; 


READ. 


453 


So,  when  affection  yields  discourse, 

it  seems 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence 

they  come ; 
They  that  are  rich  in  words,  must 

needs  discover 
They  are   but   poor  in  that  which 

makes  a  lover. 

Wrong  not,  sweet   mistress  of   my 
heart. 

The  merit  of  true  passion ; 
With  thinking  that  he  feels  no  smart 

That  sues  for  no  compassion, 

Since,  if  my  plaints  were  not  to  ap- 
prove 

The  conquest  of  thy  beauty, 
It  comes  not  from  defect  of  love, 

But  fear  to  exceed  my  duty. 


For  knowing  not  I  sue  to  serve 
A  saint  of  such  perfection 

As  all  desire,  but  none  deserve 
A  place  in  her  affection, 

I  rather  choose  to  want  relief 
Than  venture  the  revealing; 

Where  glory  recommends  the  grief, 
Despair  disdains  the  healing. 

Silence  in  love  betrays  more  woe 
Than  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty; 

A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know, 
May  challenge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,  dearest  to  my  heart. 
My  love  for  secret  passion ; 

He  smarteth   most   who   hides   his 
smart 
And  sues  for  no  compassion. 


Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 

Up  from  the  south  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay. 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder 

bore. 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chief- 
tain's door. 
The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and 

roar. 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more. 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 
And    louder    vet    into    Winchester 

rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that 

fiery  fray. 
With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester 

town, 
A    good,    broad    highway,   leading 

down; 


And  there,  through  the  flash  of  the 

morning  light, 
A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 
Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight. 
As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need. 
He  stretched  away  with  the  utmost 

speed; 
Hills  rose  and  fell, — but  his  heart 

was  gay. 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs, 
thundering  south 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  can- 
non's mouth; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping 
faster  and  faster,         [disaster. 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart 
of  the  master 

Were  beating,  like  prisoners  assault- 
ing their  walls,  [calls ; 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was 
strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 


454 


BEAD. 


Under  his  spuming  feet,  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind, 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind ; 
And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with 

furnace  ire, 
Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of 

fire; 
But,   lo!    he   is  nearing  his  heart's 

desire, 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roar- 
ing fray. 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away : 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were 
the  groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating 
troops ; 

What  was  done,  —  what  to  do, — a 
glance  told  him  both, 

And,  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terri- 
ble oath. 

He  dashed  down  the  line  mid  a  storm 
of  huzzas. 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its 
course  there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it 
to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black 
charger  was  gray ; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  nos- 
trils' play, 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to 
say, 

"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the 
way 

From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the 
day!" 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on 

high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky.  — 
The  American  soldier's  Temple  of 

Fame,— 
There  with  the    glorious   General's 

name 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and 

bright : 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight. 
From    Winchester,  —  twenty    miles 

away!" 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless 
trees. 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy 
air; 
Like  some  tanned  reaper,  in  his  hour 
of  ease. 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown 
and  bare. 

The  gray  bams  looking  from  their 
hazy  hills. 
O'er  the  dun  waters  widening  in 
the  vales, 
Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the 
mills 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate 
flails. 

All    sights    were  mellowed   and   all 
sounds  subdued. 
The  hills  seemed  further  and  the 
stream  sang  low. 
As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman 
hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled 
blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed 
with  gold. 
Their  banners  bright  with  every 
martial  hue, 
Now  stood  like  some  sad,  beaten  host 
of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest 
blue. 

On  slumb'rous  wings  the  vulture  held 

his  flight; 
The  dove  scarce  heard  its  sighing 
mate's  complaint; 
And,  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the 
light. 
The  village  church-vane  seemed  to 
pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel-cock  upon  the  hillside 
crew,  — 
Crew  thrice,  —  and  all  was  stiller 
than  before ; 
Silent,  till  some  replying  warden  blew 
His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard 
no  more. 


READ, 


455 


Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's 
tall  crest, 
Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her 
unfledged  young ; 
And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  sway- 
ing nest. 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer 
s^vung;  — 

Where  sang  the  noisy  martens  of  the 
eaves, 
The  busy  swallows   circling   ever 
near,  — 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  be- 
lieves. 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous 
year; — 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the 
vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its 
wings  at  mom. 
To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east : — 
All  now  wa€)  sunless,  empty,  and 
forlorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the 
quail. 
And  croaked  the  crow  through  all 
the  dreamy  gloom ; 
Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the 
vale. 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage 
loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon 
the  bowers; 
The    spiders    moved    their    thin 
shrouds  night  by  night, 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of 
flowers, 
Sailed  slowly  by,  —  passed  noiseless 
out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this  —  in  this  most  cheerless 
air, 
And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon 
the  porch 
Its    crimson    leaves,  as  if  the  year 
stood  there 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted 
torch, — 


Amid   all   this,  the   centre   of   the 
scene. 
The  white-haired  matron  with  mo- 
notonous tread 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her 
joyless  mien 
Sat,  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the 
flying  thread. 

She  had   known  Sorrow,  —  he   had 
walked  with  her. 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  the  bitter 
ashen  crust; 
And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard 
the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the 
dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with 
summer  bloom. 
Her  country  summoned  and    she 
gave  her  all ; 
And  twice  War  bowed  to  her   his 
sable  plume,  — 
Re-gave  the  swords  to  rust  upon 
the  wall. 

Re-gave  the  swords,  but  not  the  hand 
that  drew 
And  struck  for  Liberty  the  dying 
blow ; 
Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country 
true. 
Fell  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading 
foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel 
went  on; 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive 
at  noon ; 
Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of 
the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and 
tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped ;  her 
head  was  bowed ; 
Life  dropt  the  distaff  through  his 
hands  serene: 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her 
careful  shroud, 
While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the 
autumn  scene. 


456 


READ. 


THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME. 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's 
sash 
With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dis- 
sembles, 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 
One    starry  tear-drop  hangs    and 
trembles,  [tear, 

Though  Heaven  alone  records    the 
And  Fame  shall  never  know  her 
story. 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 
As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory! 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's 
sword, 
Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And    bravely    speaks   the    cheering 
word, 
What  though  her  heart  be   rent 
asunder, 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 
The  bolts  of  death    around    him 
rattle, 
Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 
Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle ! 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 
While  to  her  breast  her  son  she 
presses. 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and 
brief, 
Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses. 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 
To   know  the   pain   that   weighs 
upon  her. 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 
Received    on    Freedom's    field    of 
honor ! 


DRIFTING. 

My  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat. 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  re- 
mote:— 

Round  purple  peaks 
It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 


Where  high  rocks  throw, 
Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim 

The  mountains  swim ; 
While,  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 

With  outstretched  hands. 

The  gray  smOke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliflf  ;— 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals, 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild. 

Is  Heaven's  own  child. 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled;  — 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring 
keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail; 

A  joy  intense. 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where     Summer     sings   and  never 
dies, — 

O'erveiled  with  vines, 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 


BEALF. 


457 


Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling 
kid; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

AVith  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  be- 
guiled. 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  traffic  blows. 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows ; — 

This  happier  one. 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 


O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip. 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lipl 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  I 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar  I 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise  I 


In  lofty  lines. 

Mid  palms  and  pines, 
And  olives,  aloes,  elms,  and  vines, 

Sorrento  swings 

On  sunset  wings, 
Where    Tasso's     spirit    soars    and 
sings. 


Richard  Realf. 


MY  SLAIN. 

This  sweet  child  that  hath  climbed 
upon  my  knee, 
This  amber-haired,  foiu>summered 
little  maid. 
With  her  unconscious  beauty  troub- 
leth  me, 
With  her  low  prattle  maketh  me 
afraid. 
Ah,  darling!   when   you   cling  and 
nestle  so 
You  hurt  me,  though  you  do  not 

see  me  crj% 
Nor  hear  the  weariness  with  which 
I  sigh 
For  the  dear  babe  I  killed  so  long 
ago. 
I   tremble   at   the  touch  of    your 
caress : 
I  am  not  worthy  of  your  innocent 
faith ; 
I,  who   with    whetted  knives    of 
worldliness. 
Did  put  my  own  child-heartedness  to 
death ; 


Beside  whose  grave  I  pace  forever- 
more. 

Like  desolation  on  a  shipwrecked 
shore. 

There  is  no  little  child  within  me  now, 
To  sing  back  to  the  thrushes,  to 
leap  up 
When  June  winds  kiss  me,  when  an 
apple-bough 
Laughs  into  blossoms,  or  a  butter- 
cup 
Plays  with  the  sunshine,  or  a  violet 
Dances   in    the   glad  dew.    Alas! 

alas! 
The  meaning  of  the  daisies  in  the 
grass 
I  have  forgotten;  and  if  my  cheeks 
are  wet, 
It  is  not  with  the  blitheness  of  the 
child, 
But  with  the  bitter  sorrow  of  sad 
years. 
O  moaning  life !  with  life  irrecon- 
ciled; 


458 


BIGHARDSON. 


O  backward-looking  thought !  O  pain ! 

O  tears ! 
For  lis  there  is  not  any  silver  sound 
Of  rhythmic  wonders  springing  from 

the  ground. 

Woe  worth  the  knowledge  and  the 
bookish  lore 
Which     makes     men     mummies; 
weighs  out  every  grain 
Of  that  which  was  miraculous  before, 
And  sneers  the  heart  down  with 
the  scofnng  brain ; 
Woe    worth    the   peering,    analytic 


That  diy  the  tender  juices  in  the 

breast, 
And  put  the  thunders  of  the  Lord 
to  test,  [praise. 

So  that  no  maiTel  must  be,  and  no 

Nor  any  God  except  Necessity. 
What  can  ye  give  my  poor  stained 
life  in  lieu 
Of  this  dead  cherub  which  I  slew 
for  ye ! 
Take  back  your  doubtful  wisdom  and 
renew  [dunce, 

My   early  foolish   freshness   of   the 
Whose  simple  instincts  guessed  the 
heavens  at  once. 


Charles  F.  Richardson. 


AMENDS. 

Think  not  your  duty  done  when,  sad 
and  tearful. 
Your  heart  recounts  its  sins. 
And  praying  God  for  pardon,  w^eak 
and  fearful, 
Its  better  life  begins, 

Nor  rest  content  w^hen,  braver  grown 
and  stronger, 
Your  days  are  sweet  and  pure. 
Because    you   follow  evil  ways    no 
longer, 
In  Christ's  defence  secure. 

Bethink  you  then,  but  not  with  fruit- 
less ruing, 
— That  bids  the  past  be  still. 
But  what  your  life  has  wrought  to 
men's  undoing, 
By  influence  for  ill. 

Go  forth,  and  dare  not  rest  until  the 
morrow. 
But,  lest  it  be  too  late, 
Seek  out  the  hearts  whose  weight  of 
sin  and  sorrow 
Through    you   has    grown   more 
great. 

Take  gifts  to  all  of  love  and  repara- 
tion. 
Or  if  it  may  not  be, 


Pray  Christ,  with  ceaseless  lips,  to 
send  salvation 
Till  each  chained  soul  be  free. 


WORSHIP. 

Brave  spirit,  that  will  brook  no  in- 
tervention, 
But  thus  alone  before  thy  God  dost 
stand, 
Content  if  he  but  see  thy  heart's  in- 
tention, — 
Why  spurn  the  suppliant  knee  and 
outstretched  hand  ? 

Sweet  soul,  that  kneelest  in  the  sol- 
emn glory 
Of  yon  cathedral  altar,  while  the 
prayer 
Of  priest  or  bishop  tells  thine  own 
heart's  story, — 
Why  think  that  they  alone  heaven's 
keys  may  bear  ? 

Man  worships  with  the  heart;  for 
wheresoever 
One  burning  pulse  of  heartfelt  hom- 
age stirs, 
There  God  shall  straightway  find  his 
own,  and  never 
In  church  or  desert,  miss  his  wor 
shippers. 


ROBEBTS. 


459 


PATIENCE. 

If,  when  you  labor  all  the  day, 
You  see  its  minutes  slip  away 
With  joy  unfound,  with  work  undone, 
And  hope  descending  with  the  sun, 

Then  cheerily  lie  down  to  rest: 
The  longest  work  shall  be  the  best; 
And  when  the  morrow  greets  your 

eyes, 
With  strong  and  patient  heart  arise. 

For  Patience,  stem  and  leaden-eyed, 
Looks  far  where  future  joys  abide ; 
Nor  sees  short  sadness  at  her  feet. 
For  sight  of  triumph  long  and  sweet. 


O  loveless  strength!  O  strengthless 
love!  the  Master 
Whose  life  shall  shape  our  lives  is 
not  as  thou : 
Sweet  Friend  in  peace,  strong  Saviour 
in  disaster. 
Our  heart  of  hearts  enfolds  thine 
image  now ! 

Be  Christ's  the  fair  and  perfect  Ufe 

whereby 
We  shape  our  lives  for  all  eternity. 


IMITATION. 

Where  shall  we  find  a  perfect  life, 

whereby 
To  shape  our  lives  for  all  eternity  ? 

This  man  is  great  and  wise ;  the  world 
reveres  him, 
Reveres,  but  cannot  love  his  heart 
of  stone ; 
And  so  it  dares  not  follow,  though  it 
fears  him, 
But  bids  him  walk  his  mountain 
path  alone. 

That  man  is  good  and  gentle;  all  men 
love  him. 
Yet  dare  not  ask  his  feeble  arm  for 
aid; 
The  world's  best  work  is  ever  far 
above  him. 
He    shrinks    beneath   the    storm- 
capped  mountain  shade. 


JUSTICE. 

A  HUNDRED   noble    wishes  fill  my 
heart, 
I  long  to  help  each  soul  in  need  of 
aid; 
In  all  good  works  my  zeal  would  have 
its  part, 
Before  no  weight  of  toil  it  stands 
afraid. 

But    noble    wishes    are   not   noble 
deeds. 
And  he  does  least  who  seeks  to  do 
the  whole ; 
Who  works  the  best,  his   simplest 
duties  heeds, 
Who  moves  the  world,  first  moves 
a  single  soul. 

Then  go,  my  heart,  thy  plainest  work 
begin. 
Do  first  not  what  thou  canst,  but 
what  thou  must ; 
Build  not  upon  a  corner-stone  of  sin. 
Nor  seek  great  works  until  thou 
first  be  just. 


Sarah  Roberts. 


THE   VOICE  OF  THE  GRASS. 

Here    I   come   creeping,    creeping 
everywhere ; 
By  the  dusty  roadside. 
On  the  sunny  hill-side. 
Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 


In  every  shady  brook, 
I    come    creeping,    creeping   every- 
where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  every- 
where ; 
All  around  the  open  door, 


460 


ROGERS. 


Where  sit  the  aged  poor ; 
Here  where  the  children  play, 
In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 
I    come    creeping,    creeping    every- 
where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where ; 
In  the  noisy  city  street. 
My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 
Cheering  the  sick  at  heart 
Toiling  his  busy  part  — 
Silently    creeping,     creeping   every- 
where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where ; 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming ; 
For  in  the  starry  night, 
And  the  glad  morning  light, 

I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where ; 
More  welcome  than  the  flowers 


In  summer's  pleasant  hours; 
The  gentle  cow  is  glad. 
And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where ; 
When  you're  numbered  with  the 

dead 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed. 
In  the  happy  spring  I'll  come 
And  deck  your  silent  home  — 
Creeping,   silently    creeping   every- 
where. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  every- 
where ; 
My  humble  song  of  praise 
Most  joyfully  I  raise 
To  Him  at  whose  command 
I  beautify  the  land. 
Creeping,    silently    creeping  every- 
where. 


Samuel  Rogers. 


Six  Poems  entitled  by  the  author,  '■'Reflections:'' 

THE    PERVERSION  OF  GREAT 
GIFTS. 

Alas,  to  our  discomfort  and  his  own, 

Oft  are  the  greatest  talents  to  be  found 

In  a  fool's  keeping.  For  what  else 
is  he. 

However  worldly  wise  and  worldly 
strong, 

Who  can  pervert  and  to  the  worst 
abuse 

The  noblest  means  to  serve  the  no- 
blest ends  ? 

Who  can  employ  the  gift  of  elo- 
quence. 

That  sacred  gift,  to  dazzle  and  de- 
lude; 

Or,  if  achievement  in  the  field  be  his. 

Climb  but  to  gain  a  loss,  suffering 
how  much. 

And  how  much  more  inflicting! 
Every  where, 


Cost  what  they  will,  such  cruel  freaks 

are  played ; 
And  hence  the  turmoil  in  this  world 

of  ours. 
The  turmoil  never  ending,  still  be- 
ginning. 
The  wailing  and  the  tears. — When 

Csesar  came. 
He  who  could  master  all  men  but 

himself. 
Who  did  so  much  and  could  so  well 

record  it;  [part. 

Even  he,  the  most  applauded  in  his 
Who,    when    he    spoke,    all    things 

summed  up  in  him, 
Spoke  to  convince,  nor  ever,  when 

he  fought. 
Fought  but  to  conquer, —  what  a  life 

was  his. 
Slaying  so  many,  to  be  slain  at  last; 
A  life  of  trouble  and  incessant  toil, 
And  all  to  gain  what  is  far  better 

missed! 


ROOERS. 


461 


HEART  SUPERIOR  TO  HEAD. 

The  heart,  they  say,  is  wiser  than 

the  schools: 
And  well  they  may.   All  that  is  great 

in  thought, 
That  strikes  at  once  as  with  electric 

lire, 
And  lifts  us,  as  it  were,  from  earth 

to  heaven. 
Comes  from  the  heart;  and  who  con- 
fesses not 
its  voice  as  sacred,  nay,  almost  di- 
vine, 
When  inly  it  declares  on  what  we 

do. 
Blaming,  approving  ?    Let  an  erring 

world 
Judge  as  it  will,  we  care  not  while 

we  stand 
Acquitted     there;     and    oft,    when 

clouds  on  clouds 
Compass  us  round  and  not  a  track 

appears. 
Oft  is  an  upright  heart  the  surest 

guide, 
Surer  and  better  than  the  subtlest 

head; 
Still  with  its  silent  counsels  through 

the  dark 
Onward  and  onward  leading. 


ON  A   CHILD. 

This  child,  so  lovely  and  so  cherub- 
like, 

(No  fairer  spirit  in  the  heaven  of 
heavens) 

Say,  must  he  know  remorse  ?  Must 
passion  come, 

Passion  in  all  or  any  of  its  shapes, 

To  cloud  and  sully  what  is  now  so 
pure  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.  For  who,  alas! 
has  lived, 

Nor  in  the  watches  of  the  night  re- 
called 

Words  he  has  wished  unsaid  and 
deeds  undone  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.  But  if,  as  we 
may  hope, 

He  learns  ere  long  to  discipline  his 
mind, 


And  onward  goes,  humbly  and  cheer- 
fully. 

Assisting  them  that  faint,,  weak 
though  he  be. 

And  in  his  trying  hours  trusting  in 
God,— 

Fair  as  he  is,  he  shall  be  fairer  still ; 

For  what  was  innocence  will  then  be 
virtue. 


MAN'S  RESTLESSNESS. 

Man  to  the  last  is  but  a  froward 

child; 
So  eager  for  the  future,  come  what 

may. 
And  to  the  present  so  insensible ! 
Oh,  if  he  could  in  all  things  as  he 

would. 
Years  would  as  days,  and  hours  as 

moments,  be; 
He  would,  so  restless  is  his  spirit 

here. 
Give  wings  to  time,  and  wish  his  life 

away  I 


THE  SELFISH. 

Oh,  if  the  selfish  knew  ho'v  much 

they  lost, 
What  would  they  not  endeavor,  not 

endure. 
To  imitate,  as  far  as  in  them  lay. 
Him  who  his  wisdom  and  his  power 

employs 
In  making  others  happy  I 


EXHORTATION  TO  MARRIAGE. 

Hence  to  the  altar  and  with  her 
thou  lov'st. 

With  her  who  longs  to  strew  thy  way 
w  ith  flowers ; 

Nor  lose  the  blessed  privilege  to  give 

Birth  to  a  race  immortal  as  your- 
selves, 

Which  trained  by  you,  shall  make  a 
heaven  on  earth, 

And  tread  the  path  that  leads  from 
earth  to  heaven. 


462 


R00ER8, 


[From  Human  Life.] 

THE    PASSAGE    FROM    BIRTH    TO 
AGE. 

And  such  is  Human  Life ;  so,  glid- 
ing on, 

It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is 
gone! 

Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as 
strange, 

As  full,  methinks,  of  wild  and  won- 
drous change. 

As  any  that  the  wandering   tribes 
require. 

Stretched  in  the  desert  round  their 
evening  fire ;  ' 

As  any  sung  of  old  in  hall  or  bower 

To     minstrel-harps    at    midnight's 
witching  hour! 
Bom  in  a  trance,  we  wake,  ob- 
serve, inquire; 

And  the  green  earth,  the  azure  sky 
admire. 

Of  elfin-size, —  for  ever  as  we  run. 

We  cast  a  longer  shadow  in  the  sun ! 

And  now  a  charm,  and  now  a  grace 
is  won ! 

We  grow  in  stature,  and  in  wisdom 
too! 

And,  as  new  scenes,  new  objects  rise 
to  view. 

Think  nothing  done  while  aught  re- 
mains to  do. 
Yet,  all  forgot,  how  oft  the  eyelids 
close, 

And  from  the  slack  hand  drops  the 
gathered  rose! 

How  oft,  as  dead,  on  the  warm  turf 
we  lie. 

While  many  an  emmet  comes  with 
curious  eye ; 

And  on  her  nest  the  watchful  wren 
sits  by ! 

Nor  do  we  speak  or  move,  or  hear  or 
see; 

So  like  what  once  we  were,  and  once 
again  shall  be ! 
And  say,  how  soon,  where,  blithe 
as  innocent. 

The  boy  at  sunrise  carolled   as  he 
went, 

An  aged  pilgrim  on  his  staff  'shall 
lean, 


Tracing  in  vain  the  footsteps  o'er  the 
green ; 

The  man  himself  how  altered,  not 
the  scene ! 

Now  journeying  home  with  nothing 
but  the  name ; 

Wayworn  and  spent,  another  and 
the  same ! 

No  eye  observes  the  growth  or  the 
decay. 

To-day  we  look  as  we  did  yesterday; 

And  we  shall  look  to-morrow  as  to- 
day. 


iFrom  Human  Life.] 
TRUE   UNION. 

Then  before  all  they  stand, —  the 
holy  vow 

And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions 
now. 

Bind  her  as  his.  Across  the  thresh- 
old led, 

And  every  tear  kissed  off  as  soon  as 
shed, 

His  house  she  enters, —  there  to  be  a 
light 

Shining  within,  when  all  without  is 
night; 

A  guardian-angel  o'er  his  life  presid- 
ing. 

Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares 
dividing ; 

Winning  him  back,  when  mingling 
in  the  throng. 

From  a  vain  world  we  love,  alas,  too 
long, 

To  fireside  happiness,  and  hours  of 


Blest  with  that  charm,  the  certainty 

to  please. 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his;  her  gentle 

mind 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts 

inclined ; 
Still  subject, —  ever  on  the  watch  to 

borrow 
Mirth  of  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his 

sorrow. 
The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  thp 

shell, 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  mas- 
ter's spell; 


ROOERS, 


46a 


And  feeling  hearts, —  touch  them  but 

rightly, —  pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before ! 


[From,  Human  Life.} 
AGE. 

Age  has  now 
Stamped  with  its  signet  that  ingenu- 
ous brow; 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees, 
Trees  he  has  climbed  so  oft,  he  sits 

and  sees 
His  children's  children  playing  round 

his  knees: 
Then  happiest,  youngest,  when  the 

quoit  is  flung, 
When  side  by  side  the  archers'  bows 

are  strung ; 
His  to  prescribe  the  place,  adjudge 

the  prize,  [energies 

Envying  no  more  the  young  their 
Than  they  an    old   man  when  his 

words  are  wise; 
His  a  delight  how  pure  .  .  .  with- 
out alloy; 
Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in 

their  joy!  [repay 

Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they 

The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many 

a  day; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  relieved, 

restored. 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afford 
A  feeling  of  enjoyment.  In  his  walks. 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops 

and  talks, 
While  they  look  up!  Their  questions, 

their  replies. 
Fresh  as  the  welling  waters,  round 

him  rise. 
Gladdening  his  spirit;  and,  his  theme 

the  past, 
How  eloquent  he  is!    His  thoughts 

flow  fast ; 
And,  while  his  heart  (oh,  can  the 

heart  grow  old? 
False  are  the  tales  that  in  the  world 

are  told!) 
Swells  in  his  voice,  he  knows  not 

where  to  end; 
Like  one  discoursing  of  an  absent 

friend. 


But  there  are  moments  which  he 
calls  his  own. 

Then,  never  less  alone  than  when 
alone. 

Those  whom  he  loved  so  long  and 
sees  no  more. 

Loved  and  still  loves, —  not  dead, — 
but  gone  before. 

He  gathers  round  him;  and  revives 
at  will 

Scenes  in  his  life, —  that  "breathe  en- 
chantment still, — 

That  come  not  now  at  dreary  inter- 
vals,— 

But  where  a  light  as  from  the  blessed 
falls, 

A  light  such  guests  bring  ever, — pure 
and  holy, — 

Lapping  the  soul  in  sweetest  melan- 
choly ! 

—  Ah,  then  less  willing  (nor  the 
choice  condemn) 

To  live  with  others  than  to  think  of 
them! 


IFrom  The  Pleasures  of  Memory.] 
MEMORY. 

Thou  first,  best  friend  that  heaven 

assigns  below 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares 

we  know ; 
Whose  glad    suggestions   still    each 

vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades  and  life  forgets 

to  charm; 
Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke!  —  to 

thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept  and  the  poet's 

song. 
What  softened  views  thy  magic  glass 

reveals, 
When  o'er  the  landscape  time's  meek 

twilight  steals ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of 

day. 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres 

play; 
Thy  tempered  gleams  of  happiness 

resigned 
Glance  on  the  darkened  mirror  of 

the  mind. 


464 


BOSSETTL 


Hail,  memory,  hail !  in  thy  exhaust- 
less  mine 

From  age  to  age  unnumbered  treas- 
ures shine ! 

Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy 
call  obey. 

And  place  and  time  are  subject  to 
thy  sway ! 

Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel,  when 
most  alone; 

The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our 
own. 

Lighter  than  air,  hope's  summer 
visions  die, 

If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the 
sky; 

If  but  a  beam  of  sober  reason  play, 

Lo,  fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts 
away ! 

But  can  the  wiles  of  art,  the  grasp  of 
power 

Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent 
hour? 

These,  when  the  trembling  spirit 
wings  her  flight. 

Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  liv- 
ing light; 

And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect 
realms  of  rest, 

Where  virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons 
are  blest! 


[From  The  Pleasures  of  Memory.'] 
THE  OLD  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

The  school's  lone  porch,  with  rev- 
erend mosses  gray, 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where 
it  lay. 


Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  o£ 

dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant  feet  across  the 

lawn ; 
Unheard  the    shout   that  rent   the 

noon-tide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to 

care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a 

tear. 
Some  little  friendship  formed    and 

cherished  here; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trem- 
bling teems 
With  golden  visions  and  romantic 

dreams  I 


{From  The  Pleasures  of  Memory. "l 
GUARDIAN  SPIRITS. 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead 

descend 
To  watch  the  silent  slumbers  of  a 

friend ; 
To  hover  round  his  evening  walk 

unseen, 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky 

green ; 
To  hail  the  spot  where  first  their 

friendship  grew, 
And  heaven  and  nature  opened  to 

their  view ! 
Oft,    when    he    trims    his    cheerful 

hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  emulous  to  please; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  de- 
light to  dwell. 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in 

life  so  well ! 


Christina  Georgina  Rossetti. 


UP-HILL. 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the 
way? 
Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole 
long  day  ? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 


But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting- 
place  ? 
A  roof   for  when  the   slow  dark 
hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my 
face? 
You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 


SOSSETTL 


465 


Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just 
in  sight  ? 
They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at 
that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and 
weak  ? 
Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all 
who  seek  ? 
Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


REMEMBER, 

Remember   me   when  I  am   gone 
away, 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land ; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by 
the  hand, 
Nor  I  half  turn  to  go,  yet  turning  stay. 
Remember  me  when  no  more  day  by 
day 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you 

planned ; 
Only  remember  me;    you  under- 
stand [pray. 
It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or 
Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a 
while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not 
grieve:  [leave 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once 
I  had, 
Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and 
smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember 
and  be  sad. 


THE  FIRST  SPRING  DAY. 

I  WONDER  if  the  sap  is  stirring  yet. 
If  wintry  birds  are  dreaming  of  a 

mate, 
If  frozen  snowdrops  feel  as  yet  the 

sun 
And  crocus  fires  are  kindling  one  by 

one; 
Sing,  robin,  sing; 
I  still  am  sore  in  doubt  concerning 

spring. 


I  wonder  if  the  springtide  of  this 

year 
Will  bring  another  spring  both  lost 

and  dear; 
If  heart  and  spirit  will  find  out  their 

spring, 
Or  if  the  world  alone  will  bud  and 

sing: 
Sing,  hope,  to  me ; 
Sweet  notes,  my  hope,  soft  notes  for 

memory. 

The  sap  will  surely  quicken  soon  or 

late. 
The  tardiest  bird  will  twitter  to  a 

mate; 
So    spring  must   dawn    again  with 

warmth  and  bloom. 
Or  in  this  world,  or  in  the  world  to 

come: 
Sing,  voice  of  spring. 
Till  I  too  blossom,  and  rejoice  and 

sing. 


SONG. 


When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain: 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 


SOUND  SLEEP. 

Some  are  laughing,  some  are  weep- 
ing; 

She  is  sleeping,  only  sleeping. 

Round  her  rest  wild  flowers  are 
creeping; 


466 


ROSSETTI. 


There  the  wind  is  heaping,  heaping, 
Sweetest  sweets  of  summer's  keeping, 
By  the  cornfields  ripe  for  reaping. 

There  are  lilies,  and  there  blushes 
The  deep  rose,  and  there  the  thrushes 
Sing  till  latest  sunlight  flushes 
In  the  west ;  a  fresh  wind  brushes 
Through  the  leaves  while   evening 
hushes. 

There  by  day  the  lark  is  singing 
And  the  grass  and  weeds  are  spring- 
ing; 
There  by  night  the  bat  is  winging; 
There  for  ever  winds  are  bringing 
Far-off  chimes  of  church-bells  ringing. 

Night  and  morning,  noon  and  even, 
Their   sound  fills  her  dreams  with 

Heaven : 
The  long  strife  at  length  is  striven: 
Till  her  grave-bands  shall  be  riven, 
Such  is  the  good  portion  given 
To  her  soul  at  rest  and  shriven. 


WIFE  TO  HUSBAND. 

Pardon  the  faults  in  me, 
For  the  love  of  years  ago : 
Good-bye. 
I  must  drift  across  the  sea, 
I  must  sink  into  the  snow, 
I  must  die. 

You  can  bask  in  this  sun, 
You  can  drink  wine,  and  eat : 
Good-bye. 
I  must  gird  myself  and  run, 
Though  with  miready  feet: 
I  must  die. 

Blank  sea  to  sail  upon, 
Cold  bed  to  sleep  in : 
Good-bye. 
Wliile  you  clasp  I  must  be  gone 
For  all  your  weeping: 
I  must  die. 

A  kiss  for  one  friend, 
And  a  word  for  two,  -^ 
Good-bye :  — 


A  lock  that  you  must  send, 
A  kindness  you  must  do : 
I  must  die. 

Not  a  word  for  you, 
Not  a  lock  or  kiss, 
Good-bye. 
We,  one,  must  part  in  two; 
Verily  death  is  this : 
I  must  die. 


AT  HOME. 

When  I  was  dead,  my  spirit  turned 
To     seek     the     much-frequented 
house ; 
I  passed  the  door,  and  saw  my  friends 
Feasting    beneath    green    orange 
boughs ; 
From  hand  to  hand  they  pushed  the 
wine, 
They  sucked  the  pulp  of  plum  and 
peach ; 
They    sang,  they  jested,  and  they 
laughed. 
For  each  was  loved  of  each. 

I  listened  to  their  honest  chat : 

Said  one:  *'  To-morrow  we  shall  be 
Plod  plod  along  the  featureless  sands. 

And  coasting  miles  and  miles  of 
sea." 
Said  one:  "  Before  the  turn  of  tide 

We  will  achieve  the  eyrie-seat." 
Said  one:  "  To-morrow  shall  be  like 

To-day,  but  much  more  sweet." 

"  To-morrow,"  said  they,  strong  with 
hope, 

And  dwelt  upon  the  pleasant  way : 
"  To-morrow,"  cried  they  one  and  all. 

While  no  one  spoke  of  yesterday. 
Their  life  stood  full  at  blessed  noon ; 

I,  only  I,  had  passed  away: 
"  To-morrow  and  to-day  "  they  cried: 

I  was  of  yesterday. 

I  shivered  comfortless,  but  cast 

No  chill  across  the  tablecloth; 
I  all-forgotten  shivered,  sad 

To  stay,  and  yet  to  part  how  loth: 
I  passed  from  the  familiar  room, 

I  who  from  love  had  passed  away, 
Like  the  remembrance  of  a  guest 

That  tarrieth  but  a  day. 


BOSSETTI. 


467 


Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


THE  SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime: 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible,  — 
The  mmTQur  of  the  earth's  own 
shell. 
Secret  continuance  sublime 
Is  the  era's  end.    Om*  sight  may 

pass 
No  furlong  farther.     Since    time 
was. 
This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of 
time. 

No  quiet  which  is  death's,  —  it  hath 
The  moumfulness  of  ancient  life, 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As  the  world's  heart  of    rest  and 
wrath, 
Its  painful  pulse  is  on  the  sands. 
Lost  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands 

Gray  and  not  known  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 
Listen  alone  among  the  woods; 
Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  soimd  alike  to  thee. 
Hark    where     the    murmurs    of 

thronged  men 
Surge   and    sink  back  and  surge 
again,  — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strewn  beach, 
And  listen  at  its  lips;  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery, 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art ; 

And  earth,  sea,  man,  are  all  in  each. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  heaven; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand. 
And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were 
seven. 


Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a 
day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  lo(Jk  of  hers: 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  yeai*s. 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 
That  she  was  standing  on ; 

By  God  built  over  the  slieer  depth 
The  which  is  Space  begun; 

So    high,    that    looking    downward 
thence 
She  scarce  could  see  the  sim. 

It  lies  in  heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  .and  night 
.  With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames ; 

And    still    she    bowed    herself  and 
stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm. 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  heaven  she 
saw 
Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.    Her  gaze 
still  strove 
Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 


468 


SANGSTEB, 


Its  path ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
''Have  I  not  prayed  in  heaven?  — 
on  earth, 
Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed  ? 
Are     not    two     prayers    a    perfect 
strength  ? 
And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ?  " 

She  gazed  and  listened,  and  tlien  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,  — 

*' All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She 
ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  filled 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)    But  soon  their 
path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres ; 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears. ) 


LOST  DAYS. 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day. 
What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on 

the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?  Would  they  be  ears 

of  wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into 

clay? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still 

to  pay  ? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty 

feet? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as   in  dreams 

must  cheat 
The  throats  of  men  in  hell,  who  thirst 

alway  ? 
I  do  not  see  them  here;  but  after 

death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall 

see. 
Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low 

last  breath : 
"  I  am  thyself,  what  hast  thou  done 

tome?" 
"  And  I  —  and  I— thyself  "—  lo,  each 

one  saith  — 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  I " 


Margaret  E.  Sangster. 


OUR  OWN. 

If  I  had  known  in  the  morning 

How  wearily  all  the  day         [mind 
The  words  unkind  would  trouble  my 

That  I  said  when  you  went  away, 
I  had  been  more  careful,  darling. 

Nor  given  you  needless  pain ; 
But  we  vex  our  own  with  look  and 
tone 

We  may  never  take  back  again. 

For  though  in  the  quiet  evening 

You  may  give  me  the  kiss  of  peace, 
Yet  it  well  might  be  that  never  for  me 

The  pain  of  the  heart  should  cease! 
How  many  go  forth  at  morning 

Who  never  come  home  at  night ! 
And  hearts  have  broken  for  harsh 
words  spoken, 

That  sorrow  can  ne'er  set  right. 


We  have  careful   thought    for  the 
stranger. 

And  smiles  for  the  sometime  guest ; 
But  oft  for  our  own  the  bitter  tone, 

Though  we  love  our  own  the  best. 
Ah !  lips  with  the  curve  impatient, 

Ah !  brow  with  the  shade  of  scorn, 
'Twere  a  cruel  fate,  were  the  night 
too  late 

To  undo  the  work  of  the  mom! 


SUFFICIENT  UNTO  THE  DAY. 

Because  in  a  day  of  my  days  to 
come 
There  waiteth  a  grief  to  be, 
Shall  my  heart  grow  faint,  and  my 
lips  be  dumb 
In  this  day  that  is  bright  for  me  ? 


SARGENT. 


Because  of  a  subtle  sense  of  pain, 
Like  a  pulse-beat  threaded  through 

The  bliss  of  my  thought,  shall  I  dare 
refrain 
From  delight  in  the  pure  and  true  ? 

In  the  harvest  fields  shall  I  cease  to 
glean 
Since  the  summer  bloom  has  sped  ? 
Shall  I  veil  mine  eyes  to  the  noon- 
day sheen  [fled  ? 
Since  the  dew  of  the  mom  hath 

Nay,  phantom  ill  with  the  warning 
hand 
Nay,  ghosts  of  the  weary  past, 


Serene,  as  in  armor  of  faith,  I  stand. 
You  may  not  hold  me  fast. 

Your  shadows  across  my  sun  may 
fall. 
But  as  bright  the  sun  shall  shine, 
For   I  walk   in   a  light  ye  cannot 
pall. 
The  light  of  the  King  Divine. 

And  whatever  the  shades  from  day  to 
day, 
I  am  sure  that  His  name  is  Love, 
And  He  never  will  let  me  lose  my 
way 
To  my  rest  in  His  home  above. 


Epes  Sargent. 


SOUL  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Soul  of  my  soul,  impart 

Thy  energy  divine! 
Infonii  and  fill  this  languid  heart. 

And  make  Thy  purpose  mine. 
Thy  voice  is  still  and  small. 

The  world's  is  loud  and  rude; 
Oh,  let  me  hear  Thee  over  all. 

And  be,  through  love,  renewed. 

Give  me  the  mind  to  seek 

Thy  perfect  will  to  know; 
And  lead  me,  tractable  and  meek. 

The  way  I  ought  to  go. 
Make  quick  my  spirit's  ear 

Thy  faintest  word  to  hear; 
Soul  of  my  soul !  be  ever  near 

To  guide  me  in  my  need. 


A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE. 

A  LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep; 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave. 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep ! 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore : 
Oh,  give  me  the  flashing  brine. 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar! 


Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand. 

Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft: 
Set  sail !  farewell  to  the  land ! 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 
We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam 

Like  an  ocean-bird  set  free ;  — 
Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 

We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown ; 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We'll    say.    Let  the    storm    come 
down ! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters 
rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea ! 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave! 


FORGET  ME  NOT. 

**  Forget  me  not  ?  "   Ah,  words  of 
useless  warning 
To  one  whose  heart  is  henceforth 
memory's  shrine! 
Sooner  the  skylark  might  forget  the 
morning. 
Than  I  forget  a  look,  a  tone  of 
thme. 


470 


SARGENT, 


Sooner  the  sunflower  might    forget 
to  waken 
When  the  first  radiance  lights  the 
eastern  hill, 
Than  I,  by  daily  thoughts  of  thee 
forsaken, 
Feel,  as  they  kindle,  no  expanding 
thrill. 

Oft,  when  at  night  the  deck  I'm  pac- 
ing lonely 
Or  when  1  pause  to  watch  some 
fulgent  star. 
Will  Contemplation  be  retracing  only 
Thy  form,  and  fly  to  greet  thee, 
though  afar. 

When  storms  unleashed,  with  fearful 
clangor  sweeping. 
Drive  our  strained  bark  along  the 
hollowed  sea. 
When  to  the  clouds  the  foam-topped 
waves  are  leaping. 
Even  then  I'll  not  forget,  beloved 
one,  thee! 

Thy   image    in    my   sorrow-shaded 

hours. 

Will,  like  a  sunburst  on  the  waters, 

shine;  [flowers 

'Twill  be  as  grateful  as  the  breath  of 

From  some    green    island  wafted 

o'er  the  brine. 

And  O  sweet  lady,  when,  from  home 
departed, 
I  count  the  leagues  between  us  with 
a  sigh,  — 
When,  at  the  thought,  perchance  a 
tear  has  started. 
May  I  not  dream  in  heart  thou'rt 
sometimes  nigh? 

Ay,  thou  wilt,  sometimes,  when  the 
wine-cup  passes. 
And  friends  are  gathering  round  in 
festal  glee, 
While  bright  eyes  flash,  as  flash  the 
brimming  glasses. 
Let    silent    Memory    pledge    one 
health  to  me. 

Farewell!    My   fatherland  is  disap- 
pearing [sight ; 
Faster  and  faster  from  my  baffled 


The  winds  rise    wildly,    and    thick 
clouds  are  rearing 
Their  ebon  flags,  that  hasten  on 
the  night, 

Farewell!    The  pilot  leaves  us;  sea- 
ward gliding, 
Om*  brave  ship  dashes  through  the 
foamy  swell ; 
But  Hope,  forever  faithful  and  abid- 
ing, 
Hears  distant  welcomes  in  this  last 
farewell  I 


A   THOUGHT  OF  THE  PAST. 

I  WAKED  from  slumber  at  the  dead 
of  night. 
Moved  by  a  dream  too  heavenly 
fair  to  last  — 
A  dream  of  boyhood's  season  of  de- 
light; 
It  flashed  along  the  dim  shapes  of 
the  past; 
And,  as    I   mused  upon  its  strange 


Thrilling  me  with  emotions  unde- 
fined. 
Old  memories,  bursting  from  Time's 
icy  seal. 
Rushed,  like  sun-stricken  fountains 
on  my  mind. 
Scenes  where  my  lot  was  cast  in  life's 
young  day; 
My  favorite  haunts,  the  shores,  the 
ancient  woods. 
Where,  with  my  schoolmates,  I  was 
wont  to  stray ; 
Green,  sloping  lawns,  majestic  soli- 
tudes — 
All  rose  to  view,  more  beautiful  than 

then ;  — 
They   faded,  and  I  wept  —  a  child 
again ! 


THE  SPRING-TIME  WILL  RETURN. 

The  birds  are  mute,  the  bloom  is  fled, 
Cold,  cold,  the  north  winds  blow; 

And  radiant  summer  lieth  dead 
Beneath  a  shroud  of  snow. 

Sweet  summer !  well  may  we  regret 
Thy  brief,  too  brief  sojourn ; 


SARGENT. 


471 


But,  while  we  grieve,  we'll  not  forget, 
The  spring-time  will  return  I 

Dear  friend,  the  hills  rise  bare  and 
bleak 
That  bound  thy  f utm-e  years ; 
Clouds  veil  the  sky,  no  golden  streak, 

No  rainbow  light  appears ; 
Mischance    has  tracked  thy  fairest 
schemes, 
To  wreck  —  to  whelm  —  to  bum ; 
But    wintry-dark     though     Fortune 
seems. 
The  spring-time  will  return ! 

Beloved    one!    where  no  sunbeams 
shine 
Thy  mortal  frame  we  laid; 
But  oh,  thy  spirit's  form  divine 

Waits  no  sepulchral  shade ! 
No,  by  those  hopes  which,  plumed 
with  light, 
The  sod,  exidting,  spurn. 
Love's  paradise    shall    bloom    more 
bright  — 
The  Spring-time  will  return  I 


A  SUMMER  NOON  AT  SEA. 

A  HOLY  stillness,  beautiful  and  deep, 
Reigns  in  the  air  and  broods  upon 
the  ocean ; 
The  worn-out  winds  are  quieted  to 
sleep. 
And  not  a  wave  is  lifted  into  mo- 
tion. 


The  sea-bird  skims  along  the  glassy 
tide, 
With  sidelong  flight  and  wing  of 
glittering  whiteness, 
Or  floats  upon  the  sea,  outstretching 
wide 
A  sheet  of   gold  in  the  meridian 
brightness. 

Our  vessel  lies,  unstirred  by  wave  or 
blast. 
As  she  were  moored  to  her  dark 
shadow  seeming, 


Her  pennon  twined  around  the  taper- 
ing mast, 
And    her   loose  sails  like  marble 
drapery  gleaming. 

How,  at  an  hour  like  this,  the  unruf- 
fled mind 
Partakes    the  quiet  that  is   shed 
around  us! 
As  if  the  Power  that  chained  the  im- 
patient wind 
With  the  same  fetter  of  repose  had 
bound  us ! 


TROPICAL   WEATHER. 

Now  we're  afloat  upon  the  tropic  sea: 
Here  Summer  holdeth  a  perpetual 
reign. 
How  flash  the  waters  in  their  bound- 
ing glee ! 
The  sky's  soft  purple  is  without  a 
stain. 
Full  in  our  wake  the  smooth,  warm 
trade-winds  blowing. 
To  their  unvarying  goal  still  faith- 
ful run ; 
And,  as  we  steer,  with  sails  before 
them  flowing. 
Nearer  the  zenith  daily  climbs  the 
sun. 
The   startled   flying-fish   around  us 
skim. 
Glossed    like    the    humming-bird, 
with  rainbow  dyes ; 
And,  as  they  dip  into  the  water's 
brim. 
Swift  in  pursuit  the  preying  dol- 
phin hies. 
All,  all  is  fair;  and  gazing  round,  w« 

feel 
Over  the  yielding  sense  the  torrid 
languor  steal. 


CUBA. 


What  sounds  arouse  me   from  my 

slumbers  light  ? 
^^ Land  ho!    all    hands,   ahoy!" 

—  Pm  on  the  deck: 
'Tis  early  dawn:  the  day-star  yet  is 

bright; 


472 


SAVAGE, 


A  few  white  vapory  bars  the  zenith 
fleck; 
And  lo !  along  the  horizon,  bold  and 
high, 
The  purple  hills  of  Cuba!  Hail,  all 
hail! 
Isle  of  undying  verdure,  with  thy 
sky 
Of  purest  azure!    Welcome,  odor- 
ous gale ! 


O  scene  of  life  and   joy!  thou  ark 

arrayed 
In  hues  of  unimagined  loveliness. 
Sing  louder,  brave  old  mariner !  and 

aid 
My  swelling  heart  its  rapture  to 

express ;  [laore 

For,  from  enchanted  memory,  never 
Shall  fade  this  dawn  sublime,  this 

fair,  resplendent  shore. 


MiNOT  JuDsoN  Savage. 


PESCADERO  PEBBLES. 

Where  slopes  the  beach  to  the  set- 
ting sun. 

On  the  Pescadero  shore, 
For  ever  and  ever  the  restless  surf 

Rolls  up  with  its  sullen  roar. 

And  grasping  the  pebbles  in  white 
hands, 

And  chafing  them  together. 
And  grinding  them  against  the  cliffs 

In  stormy  and  sunny  weather, 

It  gives  them  nevef  any  rest; 

All  day,  all  night,  the  pain 
Of  their  long  agony  sobs  on. 

Sinks,  and  then  swells  again. 

And  tourists  come  from  every  clime 
To  search  with  eager  care. 

For  those  whose  rest  has  been  the 
least : 
For  such  have  grown  most  fair. 

But  yonder,  round  a  point  of  rock. 
In  a  quiet,  sheltered  cove, 

Where  storm  ne'er  breaks,  and  sea 
ne'er  comes, 
The  tourists  never  rove. 

The  pebbles  lie  'neath  the  sunny  sky 

Quiet  f orevermore ; 
In  dreams  of  everlasting  peace 

They  sleep  upon  the  shore. 

But  ugly,  and  rough,  and  jagged  still, 
Are  they  left  by  the  passing  years  ; 


For    they   miss  the   beat  of  angry 
storms. 
And  the  surf  that  drips  in  tears. 

The  hard  turmoil  of  the  pitiless  sea 
Turns  the  pebble  to  beauteous  gem, 

They  who  escape  the  agony 
Miss  also  the  diadem. 


LIFE  IN  DEATH. 

New  being  is  from  being  ceased ; 

No  life  is  but  by  death ; 
Something's  expiring  everywhere 

To  give  some  other  breath. 

There's  not  a  flower  that  glads  the 
spring 

But  blooms  upon  the  grave 
Of  its  dead  parent  seed,  in  which 

Its  forms  of  beauty  wave. 

The  oak,  that  like  an  ancient  tower 
Stands  massive  on  the  heath. 

Looks  out  upon  a  living  world. 
But  strikes  its  roots  in  death. 

The  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills 
Clip  the  sweet  buds  that  grow 

Rank  from  the  soil  enriched  by  herds 
Sleeping  long  years  below. 

To-day  is  but  a  structure  built 

Upon  dead  yesterday ; 
And  Progress  hews  her  temple-stones 

From  wrecks  of  old  decay. 


SAXE. 


473 


Then  mourn  not  death ;  'tis  but  a  stair 

Built  with  divinest  art, 
Up  which    the   deathless   footsteps 
climb 

Of  loved  ones  who  depart. 


LIGHT  ON   THE  CLOUD. 

There's  never  an  always  cloudless 
sky, 

There's  never  a  vale  so  fair, 
But  over  it  sometimes  shadows  lie 

In  a  chill  and  songless  air. 

But  never  a  cloud  o'erhung  the  day, 
And  flung  its  shadows  down. 

But  on  its  heaven-side  gleamed  some 
ray 
Forming  a  sunshine  crowTi. 


It  is  dark  on  only  the  downward  side; 

Though  rage  the  tempest  loud, 
And  scatter  its  terrors  far  and  wide, 

There's  light  upon  the  cloud. 

And  often,  when  it  traileth  low, 
Shutting  the  landscape  out, 

And  only  the  chilly  east-winds  blow 
From  the  foggy  seas  of  doubt. 

There'll  come  a  time,  near  the  setting 
sun, 
Wlien  the  joys  of  life  seem  few, 
A  rift  will  break  in  the  evening  dim, 
And    the    golden     light     stream 
through. 

And  the  soul  a  glorious  bridge  will 
make 

Out  of  the  golden  bars. 
And  all  its  priceless  treasures  take 

Where  shine  the  eternal  stars. 


John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  MOTTO. 

"  Give  me  a  motto,"  said  a  youth 
To  one  whom  years  had  rendered 
wise ; 
"  Some  pleasant  thought,  or  weighty 
truth, 
That  briefest  syllables  comprise ; 
Some  word  of  warning  or  of  cheer 
To  grave  upon  my  signet  here. 

"And,   reverend    father,"  said  the 
boy, 
"  Since  life,  they  say,  is  ever  made 
A  mingled  web  of  grief  and  joy ; 
Since  cares  may  come  and  pleas- 
ures fade,  — 
Pray,  let  the  motto  have  a  range 
Of  meaning  matching  every  change." 

"Sooth!"  said  the  sire,  "  methinks 
you  ask 

A  labor  something  over-nice. 
That  well  a  finer  brain  might  task. 

What  think  you,  lad,  of  this  device 
(Older  than  I,  though  I  am  gray). 
'Tis  simple,  — '  This  will  pass  away.' 


"  When   wafted    on    by   Fortune's 
breeze. 
In  endless  peace  thou  seem'st  to 
glide. 
Prepare  betimes  for  rougher  seas. 
And    check  the    boast  of    foolish 
pride ; 
Though  smiling  joy  is  thine  to-day, 
Remember,  '  This  will  pass  away ! ' 

"  When  all  the  sky  is  draped  in  black. 
And,  beaten  by  tempestuous  gales. 

Thy    shuddering    ship  seems  all  a- 
wrack. 
Then  trim  again  thy  tattered  sails ; 

To  grim  Despair  be  not  a  prey ; 

Bethink  thee,  '  This  will  pass  away.' 

"  Thus,  O  my  son,  be  not  o'er-proud, 
Nor   yet  cast  down;   judge    thou 
aright ; 
When  skies  are    clear,    expect   the 
cloud ; 
In  darkness,  wait  the  coming  light; 
Whatever  be  thy  fate  to-day. 
Remember,  '  This  will  pass  away ! '  " 


4T4 


SAKE. 


VM  GROWING   OLD. 

My  days  pass  pleasantly  away; 
My  nights  are  blest  with  sweetest 
sleep; 
I  feel  no  symptoms  of  decay ; 

I  have  no  cause  to  mourn  nor  weep ; 
My  foes  are  impotent  and  shy; 
My  friends  are  neither  false  nor 
cold, 
Ani  yet,  of  late,  I  often  sigh,  — 
I'm  growing  old! 

My  growing  talk  of  olden  times. 
My  growing  thirst  for  early  news, 

My  growing  apathy  to  rhymes. 
My  growing  love  of  easy  shoes. 

My  growing  hate  of  crowds  and  noise. 
My  growing  fear  of  taking  cold, 

All  whisper,  in  the  plainest  voice, 
I'm  growing  old! 

I'm  growing  fonder  of  my  staff; 

I'm  growing  dimmer  in  the  eyes; 
I'm  growing  fainter  in  my  laugh; 

I'm  growing  deeper  in  my  sighs; 
I'm  growing  careless  of  my  dress; 
I'm  growing  frugal  of  my  gold; 
I'm  growing  wise;   I'm  growing, — 
yes,  — 

I'm  growing  old! 

I  see  it  in  my  changing  taste ; 

I  see  it  in  my  changing  hair; 
I  see  it  in  my  growing  waist ; 

I  see  it  in  my  growing  heir ; 
A  thousand  signs  proclaim  the  truth. 

As  plain  as  truth  was  ever  told. 
That,  even  in  my  vaunted  youth 
I'm  growing  old. 

Ah  me !  my  very  laurels  breathe 
The  tale  in  my  reluctant  ears. 
And  every  boon  the  Hours  bequeath 
But  makes  me  debtor  to  the  Years ! 
E'en  Flattery's  honeyed  words  declare 
The  secret  she  would  fain  withhold ; 
And  tells  me  in  "  How  young  you 
are!" 

I'm  growing  old. 

Thanks  for  the  years !  —  whose  rapid 
flight 
My  sombre  Muse  too  sadly  sings ; 


Thanks    for    the  gleams  of    golden 
light 
That  tint  the  darkness    of    their 
wings ; 
The  light  that  beams  from  .»ut  the 
sky. 
Those  heavenly  mansions  to  unfold 
Where  all  are  blest,  and  none  may 
sigh, 

"I'm  growing  old!" 


SOMEWHERE. 

Somewhere  —  somewhere    a  happy 

clime  there  is, 
A  land  that  knows  not  unavailing 

woes. 
Where  all  the  clashing  elements  of 

this 
Discordant  scene    are    hushed    in 

deep  repose. 
Somewhere  —  somewhere     (ah    me, 

that  land  to  win!) 
In  some  bright  realm,  beyond  the 

farthest  main, 
Where  trees  of  knowledge  bear  no 

fruit  of  sin, 
And  buds  of  pleasure  blossom  not  in 

pain. 
Somewhere  —  somewhere  an  end  of 

mortal  strife 
With  our  immortal  yearnings ;  nev- 
ermore 
The  outer  warring  with  the  inner  life 
Till  both  are  wretched !    Ah,  that 

happy  shore ! 
Where  shines  for  aye  the  soul's  reful- 
gent sun, 
And  life  is  love,  and  love  and  joy  are 

one! 


LITTLE  JERRY,    THE  MILLER. 

Beneath  the  hill  you  may  see  the 
mill 
Of    wasting  wood  and  crumbling 
stone ; 
The  wheel  is  dripping  and  clattering 
still. 
But  Jerry,  the  miller,  is  dead  and 
gone. 


SAXE. 


475 


Year  after  year,  early  and  late, 
Alike     in     summer    and    winter 
weather, 
He  pecked  the  stones  and  calked  the 
gate. 
And  mill  and  miller  grew  old  to- 
gether. 

"Little     Jerry!"  — 'twas     all     the 
same,  — 
They  loved  him  well  who  called 
him  so; 
And  whether  he'd  ever  another  name, 
Nobody  ever  seemed  to  know. 

*Twas,  "Little  Jerry,  come  grind  my 

rye"; 
And  "  Little  Jerry,  come  grind  my 

wheat"; 
And  "Little   Jerry"   was    still  the 

cry> 
From   matron    bold    and   maiden 
sweet. 

*Twas,    "Little    Jerry"    on    every 
tongue, 
And  so  the  simple  truth  was  told ; 
For  Jerry  was  little  when   he   was 
young, 
And  Jerry  was  little  whon  he  was 
old. 

But  what  in  size  he  chanced  to  lack. 
That  Jerry  made  up  in  being  strong ; 

I've  seen  a  sack  upon  his  back 
As  thick  as  the  miller,  and  quite  as 
long. 

Always  busy,  and  always  merry, 
Always  doing  his  very  best, 

A  notable  wag  was  little  Jerry, 
Who  uttered  well  his  standing  jest. 

How  Jerry  lived  is  known  to  fame. 
But  how  he  died  there's  none  may 
know; 
One  autumn  day  the  rumor  came, 
"  The  brook  and    Jerry  are  very 
low." 

And  then  'twas  whispered,  mourn- 
fully, 
The  leech  had  come,  and  he  was 
dead; 


And  all  the  neighbors  flocked  to  see; 
"Poor  little  Jerry!"  was  all  they 
said. 

They  laid  him  in  his  earthly  bed,  — 
His  miller's  coat  his  only  shroud; 

"  Dust  to  dust,"  the  parson  said. 
And  all  the  people  wept  aloud. 

For  he  had  shunned  the  deadly  sin. 
And  not  a  grain  of  over-toll 

Had  ever  dropped  into  his  bin. 
To  weigh  upon  his  parting  soul. 

Beneath  the  hill  there  stands  the  mill. 

Of    wasting  wood  and    crumbling 

stone;  [still.. 

The  wheel  is  dripping  and  clattering 

But  Jerry,  the  miller,  is  dead  and 

gone. 


WOULDN'T   YOU  LIKE   TO  KNOWt 

A  MADRIGAL. 

I  KNOW  a  girl  with  teeth  of  i)earl, 
And  shoulders  white  as  snow; 

She  lives,  —  ah  I  well, 

I  must  not  tell,  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ? 

Her  sunny  hair  is  wondrous  fair, 
And  wavy  in  its  flow ; 

Who  made  it  less 

One  little  tress.  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know? 

Her  eyes  are  blue  (celestial  huel) 
And  dazzling  in  their  glow; 

On  whom  they  beam 

With  melting  gleam,  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ? 

Her  lips  are  red  and  finely  wed, 
Like  roses  ere  they  blow ; 

What  lover  sips 

Those  dewy  lips,  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ? 

Her  fingers  are  like  lilies  fair 
When  lilies  fairest  grow; 

Whose  hand  they  press 

With  fond  caress,  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  knaw  ? 


476 


SCQTT. 


Her  foot  is  small,  and  has  a  fall 

Like  snow-flakes  on  the  snOw; 

And  where  it  goes 

Beneath  the  rose,  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ? 

She  has  a  name,  the  sweetest  name 
That  language  can  bestow. 

'T would  break  the  spell 

If  I  should  tell,  — 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ? 


TREASURE  IN  HEAVEN. 

Every  coin  of  earthly  treasure 

We  have  lavished,  upon  earth, 
For  our  simple  worldly  pleasm-e, 

May  be  reckoned  something  worth ; 
For  the  spending  was  not  losing, 

Though    the    pm-chase   were 
small ; 
It  has  perished  with  the  using ; 

We  have  had  it,  —  that  is  all ! 


but 


All  the  gold  we  leave  behind  us 

When-  we  turn  to  dust  again 
(Though  our  avarice  may  blind  us), 

We  have  gathered  quite  in  vain ; 
Since  we  neither  can  direct  it. 

By  the  winds  of  fortune  tossed. 
Nor  in  other  worlds  expect  it ; 

What  we  hoarded,  we  have  lost. 


But  each  merciful  oblation  — 

(Seed  of  pity  wisely  sown), 
What  we  gave  in  self-negation, 

We  may  safely  call  our  own ; 
For  the  treasure  freely  given 

Is  the  treasure  that  we  hoard. 
Since  the  angels  keep  in  Heaven 

W  hat  is  lent  unto  the  Lord  I 


TO  MY  LOVE. 

"  Da  mi  basia."  —  Catullus. 

Kiss  me    softly,  and  speak  to    me 
low; 
Malice  has  ever  a  vigilant  ear; 
What  if  Malice  were  lurking  near? 
Kiss  me,  dear! 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low; 

Envy  too  has  a  watchful  ear ; 

What  if  Envy  should  chance  to  hear? 
Kiss  me,  dear! 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low ; 
Trust  me,  darling,  the  time  is  near 
When  we  may  love  with  never  a 
fear; 

Kiss  me,  dear! 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 


Sir  Walter  Scott. 


{From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake-I 
S  UMMER  DA  WN  A  T  IjOCH  KA  TRINE, 

The  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 
To    purple    changed    Loch  Katrine 

blue; 
Mildly  and  soft  the  western  breeze 
Just  kissed  the  lake,  just  stirred  the 

trees, 
And  the  pleased  lake,  like  maiden  coy, 
Trembled  but  dimpled  not  for  joy ; 
The  mountain  shadows  on  her  breast 
Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest; 


In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie. 
Like  future  joys  to  Fancy's  eye. 
The  water-lily  to  the  light 
Her  chalice  reared  of  silver  bright ; 
The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn. 
Begemmed  with  dew-drops,  led  her 

fawn; 
The   gray   mist   left   the  mountain 

side, 
The    torrent    showed    its  glistening 

pride ; 
Invisible  in  flecked  sky, 
The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry ; 


A    SCENE    IN    THE    HIGHLANDS. 


Page  477. 


c     etc 


SCOTT. 


477 


The    blackbird    and    the     speckled 

thrush 
Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and 

bush : 
In  answer  cooed  the  cushat  dove 
Her   notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and 

love. 


[From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.] 
A  SCENE  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
KoUed  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way; 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire, 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below. 
Where  twined  the  path  in  shadow 

hid. 
Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid, 
Shooting  abruptly  from  the  deU 
Its  thunder-splintered  pinnacle ; 
Kound  many  an  insulated  mass, 
The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass. 
Huge   as  the  tower  which  builders 

vain 
Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 
The  rocky  summit,  split  and  rent. 
Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement. 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret, 
Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  decked 
Or  mosque  of  Eastern  architect. 
Nor  were   these   earth-bom   castles 

bare. 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair; 
For,  from  their  shivered  brows  dis- 
played. 
Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade. 
All    twinkling    with    the   dewdrops 

sheen. 
The  brier-rose  fell  in  streamers  green, 
And  creeping  shrubs,  of  thousand 

dyes. 
Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer 

sighs. 

Boon  nature  scattered,  free  and  wild. 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's 

child. 
Here  eglantine  embalmed  the  air. 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there ; 
Tha  primrose  pale  and  violet  flower, 
Fomid  in  each  cliff  a  narrow  bower; 


Fox-glove  and  night-shade,  side  by 

side. 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride. 
Grouped  their  dark  hues  with  eveiy 

stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every 

breath. 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath; 
Aloft  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock ; 
And,  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shattered  trunk,  and  frequent 

flung. 
Where  seemed  the  cliffs  to  meet  on 

high, 
His    boughs  athwart  the  r  arrowed 

sky. 
Highest  of    all,  where  white  peaks 

glanced, 
Where   glist'ning   streamers   waved 

and  danced. 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might 

seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 


IFrom  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.] 
A  PICTURE   OF  ELLEN. 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 
A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 
Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face ! 
What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent 

frown. 
Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with 

brown,  — 
The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and 

light. 
Had  dyed  her  glowing  hue  so  bright, 
Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 
Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow: 
What    though    no    rule    of    courtly 

grace 
To  measured  mood  had  trained  her 

pace,  — 
A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true. 
Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dashed 

the  dew; 
E'en  the    slight  harebell  raised  its 

head, 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread ; 


478 


SCOTT. 


What  though  upon  her  speech  there 

hung 
The     accents     of      her     mountain 

tongue,  — 
Those  silver  sounds  so  soft,  so  dear, 
Tlie  hstener  held  his  breath  to  hear ! 


[From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.'] 
PATERNAL  LOVE. 

rSoME  feelings  are  to  mortals  given. 
With    less    of    earth  in  them  than 

heaven : 
And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 
From    passion's   dross   refined   and 

clear, 
A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek. 
It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek, 
'Tis  that  which  pious  fathers  shed 
Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head! 


{From  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.'] 

MELROSE  ABBEY  BY  MOON- 
LIGHT. 

If  thou  would' St  view  fair  Melrose 

aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 
When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in 

night. 
And    each   shafted    oriel    glimmers 

white ; 
"V^Tien    the    cold    light's    uncertain 

shower 
Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower; 
When  buttress  and  buttress,   alter- 
nately, 
Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory; 
When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 
And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to 

live  and  die; 
When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave. 
And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead 

man's  grave, 
Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 
Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile; 
And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear. 
Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair! 


[From  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.] 
LOVE. 

In  peace,  Love  tunes  the  shepherd's 

reed; 
In  war  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed ; 
In  halls,  in  gay  attire  is  seen ; 
In  hamlets,  dances  on  the  green. 
Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the 

grove, 
And  men  below,  and  saints  above ; 
For  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is 

love. 

True  love's  the  gift  which  God  has 

given 
To  man  alone  beneath  the  heaven; 
It  is  not  fantasy's  hot  fire. 
Whose  wishes,  soon  as  granted 

fly; 

It  liveth  not  in  fierce  desire. 
With  dead  desire  it  doth  not  die; 
It  is  the  secret  sympathy. 
The  silver  link,  the  silken  tie. 
Which  heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to 

mind. 
In  body  and  in  soul  can  bind. 


[From  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.] 
BREATHES  THERE  THE  MAN. 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul 

so  dead. 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said. 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him 

burned. 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned. 
From    wandering   on    a    foreign 

strand ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him 

well; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High   though  his  titles,    proud  his 

name,  [claim; 

Boundless  his  wealth    as  wish   can 
Despite  those  titles,  power  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To   the  vile  dust    from  whence  he 

sprung. 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


SCOTT. 


479 


O  Caledonia!  stern  and  wild, 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child ! 
Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy 

wood, 
Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 
Land  of  my  sires !  what  mortal  hand 
Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band, 
That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand ! 
Still,    as    I   view   each  well-known 

scene, 
Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath 

been. 
Seems,  as  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 
Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams 

were  left ; 
And  thus  1  love  them  better  still 
Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 
By    Yarrow's    stream    still    let    me 

stray, 
Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble 

way; 
Still  feel  the  breeze  down   Ettrick 

break, 
Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek ; 
Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  Stone, 
Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone. 
The    bard    may    draw    his   parting 

gi'oan. 


[  From  Ivanlioe.} 
REBECCA'S  HYMN. 

Whex  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came. 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved. 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise. 
And  trump  and  timbrel  answered 
keen, 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their 
lays,  [tween. 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  be- 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 
Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone; 
Our  fathers  would    not  know  Thy 
ways, 
And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their 
own. 


But  present  still,  though  now  un- 
seen! 
When  brightly  shines  the  prosper- 
ous day. 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And,  oh,  when  stoops  on  Judah's 
path 
In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent 
night, 
Be   Thou,    long   suffering,    slow  to 
wrath, 
A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams. 
The   tyrant's   jest,  the    Gentile's 
scorn ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams. 
And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and 
horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said.  The  blood  of 
goat,     . 
The  flesh  of  rams  I  will  not  prize ; 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought. 
Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 


IFrom  liedgauntlet.] 
PAYMENT  IN  STORE. 

As  lords  their  laborers'  hire  delay. 
Fate  quits  our  toil  with  hopes  to 
come. 

Which,  if  far  short  of  present  pay, 
Still  owns  a  debt  and  names  a  sum. 

Quit  not  the  pledge,  frail  sufferer, 
then. 

Although  a  distant  date  be  given ; 
Despair  is  treason  towards  men. 

And  blasphemy  to  Heaven. 


[From  The  Betrothed.] 

FAITH  IN  UNFAITH. 

Woman's  faith  and  woman's  trust  — 
Write  the  characters  in  dust : 
Stamp  them  on  the  running  stream, 
Print  them  on  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
And  each  evanescent  letter 
Shall  be  clearer,  fii-mer,  better, 
And  more  permanent,  I  ween. 
Than  the  thing  those  letters  mean. 


480 


SCOTT. 


I  have  strained  the  spider's  thread 
'Gainst  the  promise  of  a  maid; 
I  have  weighed  a  grain  of  sand 
'Gainst  her  plight  of  heart  and  hand; 
I  told  my  true  love  of  the  token 
How  her  faith  proved  light  and  her 

word  was  broken ; 
Again  her  word  and  truth  she  plight, 
And  I  believed  them  again  ere  night. 


WANDERING    WILLIE. 

All  joy  was  bereft  me  the  day  that 

you  left  me, 

And  climbed  the  tall  vessel  to  sail 

yon  high  sea;  [it, 

O  weary  betide  it!  I  wandered  beside 

And    banned    it    for   parting  my 

Willie  and  me. 

Far  o'er  the  wave  hast  thou  followed 
thy  fortune, 
Oft  fought  the  squadrons  of  France 
and  of  Spain ; 
Ae  kiss  of  welcome's  worth  twenty  at 
parting, 
Xow  I  hae  gotten  my  Willie  again. 

When  the  sky  it  was  mirk,  and  the 
winds  they  were  wailing, 
I  sat  on  the  beach  wi'  the  tear  in 
my  ee, 
And  thought  of  the  bark  where  my 
Willie  was  sailing. 
And  wished  that  the  tempest  could 
a'  blaw  on  me. 

Now  that  thy  gallant  ship  rides  at 
her  moorings, 
Now  that  my  wanderer's  in  safety 
at  hame, 
Music  to  me  were  the  wildest  winds' 
roaring, 
That  e'er  o'er  Inch- Keith  drove  the 
dark  ocean  faem. 

When  the  lights  they  did  blaze,  and 
the  guns  they  did  rattle. 
And  blithe  was  each  heart  for  the 
great  victory,  [battle, 

In  secret  I  wept  for  the  dangers  of 
And  thy  glory  itself  was  scarce  com- 
fort for  me. 


But  now  shalt  thou  tell,  while  I  ea« 
gerly  listen. 
Of  each  bold  adventure,  and  every 
brave  scar; 
And  trust  me,  I'll  smile,  though  my 
een  they  may  glisten ; 
For  sweet  after  danger's  the  tale  of 
the  war. 

And  oh,  how  we  doubt  when  there's 
distance  'tween  lovers, 
When  there's  naething  to  speak  to 
the  heart  thro'  the  ee ; 
How  often  the  kindest  and  warmest 
prove  rovers. 
And  the  love  of  thefaithfuUest  ebbs 
like  the  sea. 


Till,  at  times  —  could  I  help  it  ?  —  I 
pined  and  I  pondered 
If  love  could  change  notes  like  the 
bird  on  the  tree  — 
Now  I'll  ne'er  ask  if  thine  eyes  may 
have  wandered. 
Enough,  thy  leal  heart  has  been 
constant  to  me. 


THE  SUN  UPON  THE   WEIRDLAW 
HILL. 

The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill, 

In  Ettrick's  vale  is  sinking  sweet; 
The  western  wind  is  hush  and  still. 

The  lake  lies  sleeping  at  my  feet. 
Yet  not  the  landscape  to  mine  eye 

Bears  those  bright  hues  that  once 
it  bore; 
Though  evening,  with  her  richest  dye, 

Flames  o'er  the  hills  of  Ettrick's 
shore. 

With  listless  look  along  thy  plain, 

I  see  Tweed's  silver  current  glide. 
And  coldly  mark  the  holy  fane 

Of  Melrose  rise  in  ruined  pride. 
The  quiet  lake,  the  balmy  air. 

The  hill,  the  stream,  the  tower,  the 
tree, — 
Are  they  still  such  as  once  they  were  ? 

Or  is  the  dreary  change  in  me  ? 


SCOTT. 


481 


Alas,  the  warped  and  broken  board, 

How  can  it  bear  the  painter's  dye! 
The  harp  of  strained  and  timeless 
chord, 

How  to  the  minstrel's  skill  reply! 
To  aching  eyes  each  landscape  lowers, 

To  feverish  pulse  each  gale  blows 
chill; 
And  Araby's  or  Eden's  bowers 

Were  barren  as  this  moorland  hill. 


THE    VIOLET. 

The  violet  in  her  greenwood  bower, 
Where  birchen  boughs  with  hazels 
mingle, 

May  boast  itself  the  fairest  flower 
In  glen,  or  copse,  or  forest  dingle. 

Though  fair  her  gems  of  azure  hue. 
Beneath  the  dewdrop's  weight  re- 
clining; 
I've  seen  an  eye  of  lovelier  hue, 
More  sweet  through  watery  lustre 
shining. 

The  summer  sun  that  dew  shall  dry. 
Ere  yet  the  day  be  past  its  mor- 
row ; 
Nor  longer  in  my  false  love's  eye 
Remained  the  tear  of  parting  sor- 
row. 


HEL  VELL  YN. 

I  CLIMBED    the    dark  brow  of  the 

mighty  Helvellyn, 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me 

gleamed  misty  and  wide ; 
All  Was  still,  save  by  fits,  when  the 

eagle  was  yelling. 
And  starting  around  me  the  echoes 

replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the 

Ked-tarn  was  bending. 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was 

defending. 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front 

was  ascending. 
When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where 

the  wanderer  had  died. 


Dark  green  was  the  spot  'mid  the 
brown  mountain-heather. 
Where  the  pilgrim  of  nature  lay 
stretched  in  decay, 

Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  aban- 
doned to  weather. 
Till  the  mountain  winds  wasted  the 
tenantless  clay. 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely 
extended. 

For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  fa- 
vorite attended. 

The  much-loved  remains  of  her  mas- 
ter defended, 
And   chased  the  hill-fox  and  the 
raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his 

silence  was  slmnber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment, 

how  oft  didst  thou  start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks 

didst  thou  number. 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend 

of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  oh !  was  it  meet,  that  —  no  re- 
quiem read  o'er  him  — 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to 

deplore  him. 
And    thou,    little    guardian,     alone 

stretched  before  him  — 
Unhonored  the  pilgrim  from  life 

should  depart  ? 

When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peas- 
ant has  yielded, 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the 
dim-lighted  hall; 

With  scutcheons  of  silver  ,the  coffin 
is  shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  can- 
opied pall : 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight, 
the  torches  are  gleaming; 

In  the   proudly  -  arched  chapel  the 
banners  are  beaming, 

Far   adown    the  long  aisles    sacred 
music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  chief  of  the  people 
should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of 
nature, 
To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek 
mountain  lamb, 


482 


SEAVER, 


When,  wildered,  tie  drops  from  some 

cliff  huge  in  stature, 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side 

of  his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this 

desert  lake  lying, 


Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover 
flying, 

With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  wit- 
ness thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Helvellyn  and  Cat- 
chedicam. 


Emily  Seaver. 


THE  ROSE  OF  JERICHO. 

And  was  it  not  enough  that,  meekly 
growing, 
In  lack  of  all  things  wherein  plants 
delight. 
Cool  dews,  rich  soil,  and  gentle  show- 
ers refreshing. 
It  yet  could  blossom  into  beauty 
bright  ? 

In  the  hot  desert,  in  the  rocky  crevice, 
By  dusty  waysides,  on  the  rubbish 
heap, 
Where'er  the  Lord  appoints,  it  smiles, 
believing 
That  where  He  planteth,  He  will 
surely  keep ! 

Nay,  this  is  not  enough,  the  fierce 

sirocco 

Must  root  it  up,  and  sweep  it  from 

its  home,  [desert. 

And  bear  it  miles  away,  across  the 

Then  fling  it,  ruthless,  on  the  white 

sea-foam. 

Do  they  thus  end,  those  lives  of  pa- 
tient duty, 
That  grow,  through  every  grief  and 
pain  more  fair.  — 
Are  they  thus  cast  aside,  at  length, 
forgotten  ? 
Ah   no!    my  story  is   not  ended 
there. 

Those  roots  upon  the  waves  of  ocean 
floating. 
That  in  their  desert  homes  no  mois- 
ture knew, 


Now,  at  the  fount  their  life-long  thirst 
are  quenching. 
Whence  rise  the  gentle  showers, 
the  nightly  dew. 

They  drink  the  quickening  streams 
through  every  fibre. 
Until  with  hidden  life  each  seed 
shall  swell; 
Then  come  the  winds  of  God,  his 
word  fulfilling. 
And    bear  them  back,  where  He 
shall  please,  to  dwell. 

Thus  live  meek  spirits,  duly  schooled 
to  duty,  — 
The  whirlwind  storm  may  sweep 
them  from  their  place ; 
"What    matter  if  by    this    atfliction 
driven 
Straight  to  their  God,  the  fountain 
of  all  grace  ? 

And  when,  at  length,  the  final  trial 
Cometh, 
Though  hurled  to  unkno"WTi  worlds, 
they  shall  not  die; 
Borne  not  by  winds  of  wrath,  but 
God's  own  angels. 
They  feed  upon  His  love  and  dwell 
beneath  His  eye. 

Till  by  the  angel  of  the  resurrection. 
One  awful  blast   through  heaven 
and  earth  be  blown ; 
Then  soul  and  body,  met  no  more  to 
sunder. 
That  all  God's  ways  are  true  and 
just  shall  own! 


SEWALL. 


483 


Harriet  Winslow  Sewall. 


WHY  THUS  LONGING? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sigh- 
ing 
For  the  far-off,  unattained  and  dim, 
While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee 
lying, 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Would' St    thou  listen  to  its    gentle 
teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would 
still, 
Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are 
preaching. 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble, 
first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around 

thee 

Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst 

throw,  [thee 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound 

To  some  little  world  through  weal 

and  woe ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can 

brighten. 

No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own, 

If  no  brother's    sorrow  thou    canst 

Hghten 

By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's 
applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  win  thee  world 
renown. 


Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses, 
Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  im* 
mortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and 
lonely. 
Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give ; 
Thou   wilt   find    by   hearty  striving 
only. 
And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly 
Uve. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning 
When  all  Nature  hails  the  lord  of 
light. 
And    his  smile,  nor  low  nor   lofty 
scorning, 
Gladdens  hall  and  hovel,  vale  and 
height  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and 
forest, 
Proud    proprietors    in  pomp  may 
shine. 
But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest. 
Thou  art  wealthier,  —  all  the  world 
is  thine. 

Yet  if  through  earth's  wide  domains 
thou  rovest. 
Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine 
alone. 
Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou 
lovest. 
And  their  beauty  and  thy  wealth 
are  gone. 


484 


SHAKESPEARE. 


William  Shakespeare. 


\_From  As  You  Like  It.] 
LIFE'S    THEATRE. 

All  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely 

players ; 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  en- 
trances, 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many 

parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first 

the  infant,  [arms. 

Mewling  and  puking  in  his  nurse's 
And  then,  the  whining  school-boy, 

with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping 

like  snail 
Unwillingly  to    school.    And    then, 

the  lover. 
Sighing  like  furnace,   with  a  woful 

ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.  Then, 

the  soldier. 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded 

like  the  pard. 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick 

in  quarrel ; 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.     And 

then,  the  justice. 
In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon 

lined, 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal 

cut, 
Full    of  wise  saws  and  modern  in- 
stances ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth 

age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon. 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch 

on  side; 
His  youthful  hose  well  saved,  a  world 

too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shanks ;  and  Lis  big 

manly  voice. 
Turning    again     towards     childish 

treble,  pipes 
And    wiiistles    in    his  sound.     Last 

scene  of  all 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  his- 
tory, 


Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  ol>« 

livion: 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sana 
everything. 


[From  As  You  Like  It.\ 
INGRATITUDE. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude! 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho!  sing,  heigh-ho!  unto  the 

green  holly: 
Most  friendship    is    feigning,   most 
loving  mere  folly : 

Then  heigh-ho !  the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot! 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
"Heigh-ho!  sing  heigh-ho,  &c." 


[From  Hamlet.'] 
TO  BE,  OR  NOT  TO  BE. 

To  BE,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  ques- 
tion— 

Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to 
suffer 

The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous 
fortune, 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of 
troubles, 

And,  by  opposing  end  them?  To 
die  —  to  sleep  —  [end 

No  more ;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we 

The  heartache,  and  the  thousand 
natural  shocks 

That  flesh  is  heir  to!  — 'tis  a  con- 
summation 

Devoutly  to  be  wished.  To  die  —  to 
sleep  — 


SEAKESPEAUE. 


485 


To  sleep! — perchance  to  dream!  — 

ay,  there's  the  rub; 
For   in    that  sleep  of   death,  what 

dreams  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal 

coil, 
Must    give    us    pause  —  there's    the 

respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life : 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and 

scorns  of  time. 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the    proud 

man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's 

delay. 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  th'  unworthy 

takes. 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus 

make 
With  a  bare  bodkin!    Who    would 

fardels  bear,  [life, 

To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after 

death  — 
That    undiscovered     country     from 

whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  —  puzzles  the 

will. 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills 

we  have,  [of  ? 

Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards 

of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of 

thought, 
And  enterprises  of   great  pith  and 

moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn 

awry. 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


[From  Hamlet.] 

GOOD  COUNSEL  OF  POLONIUS  TO 
LAERTES. 

Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means 

vulgar. 
The    friends    thou    hast,   and  their 

adoption  tried, 
Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hooks 

of  steel; 


But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  enter- 

tertainment 
Of  each  new-hatched,  unpledged  com 

rade.     Beware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but,  being  in 
Bear  it,  that  the  opposer  may  beware 

of  thee. 
Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few 

thy  voice ; 
Take    each  man's  censure,   but  re- 
serve thy  judgment. 
Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy. 
But  not  expressed  in  fancy;  rich,  not 

gaudy; 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man ; 
And  they  in  France,  of  the  best  rank 

and  station, 
Are  most  select  and  generous,  chief 

in  that. 
Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be ; 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself   and 

friend ; 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  hus- 
bandly. 
This  above  all.  —  To  thine  oMn  self 

be  true ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the 

day. 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any 

man! 


{From  The  Merchant  of  Venice.'] 

FALSE  APPEARANCES. 

The  world  is  still  deceived  with 
ornament. 

In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  cor- 
rupt. 

But  being  seasoned  with  a  gracious 
voice. 

Obscures  the  show  of  evil?  In  re- 
ligion, 

What  danmed  error,  but  some  sober 
brow 

Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a 
text. 

Hiding  the  grossness  w^ith  fair  orna- 
ment ? 

There  is  no  voice  so  simple,  but  as- 
sumes 

Some  mark  of  virtue  on  its  outward 
parts. 

How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are 
all  as  false 


486 


SHAKESPEARE. 


As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their 
chins 

The  beards  of  Hercules  and  frowning 
Mars ; 

Who,  inward  searched,  have  livers 
white  as  milk ! 

And  these  assume  but  valor's  excre- 
ment, 

To  render  them  redoubted.  Look  on 
beauty, 

And  you  shall  see  'tis  purchased  by 
the  weight. 

Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in 
nature. 

Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most 
of  it. 

So  are  those  crisped,  snaky,  golden 
locks. 

Which  make  such  wanton  gambols 
with  the  wind 

Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 

To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head. 

The  skull  that  bred  them  in  the  sep- 
ulchre. 

Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled 
shore 

To  a  most  dangerous  sea;  the  beau- 
teous scarf 

Veiling  an  Indian  beauty;  in  a  word. 

The  seeming  truth  which  cunning 
times  put  on 

To  entrap  the  wisest. 


{From  The  Merchant  of  Venice."] 
MERCY. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from 
heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath.  It  is  twice 
blessed ; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him 
that  takes. 

'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest;  it  be- 
comes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his 
crown : 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  tempo- 
ral power. 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear 
of  kings. 

But  mercy  is  above  the  sceptred 
sway; 


It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings  j 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show 

likest  God's, 
When  mercy  seasons  justice. 


{From  Troilus  and  Cressida.] 

CONSTANT    EFFORT    NECESSARY 
TO  SUPPORT  FAME. 

Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at 

his  back, 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 
A  great-sized    monster  for  ingrati- 
tudes : 
Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past: 

which  are  devoured 
As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as 

soon 
As  done :  Perseverance,  dear  my  lord, 
Keeps  honor  bright:  To  have  done, 

is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty 

mail 
In  monumental  mockery.    Take  the 

instant  way ; 
For  honor  travels-  in  a  strait  so  nar- 
row. 
Where  one  but  goes  abreast:  keep 

then  the  path ; 
For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 
That  one  by  one  pursue.    If  you  give 

way. 
Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forth- 
right, 
Like  to  an  entered  tide,  they  all  rush 

by, 
And  leave  you  hindmost ;  — 
Or,  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  first 

rank. 
Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject 

rear, 
O'errun  and  trampled  on.   Then  what 

they  do  in  present, 
Though  less  than  yours  in  past,  must 

o'ertop  yours: 
For  time  is  like  a  fashionable  host 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest 

by  the  hand ; 
And  with  his  arms  outstretched,  as 

he  would  fly. 
Grasps  in  the  comer.     Welcome  ever 

smiles 


SHAKESPEARE, 


487 


And  farewell  goes  out  sigliing.  O, 
let  not  virtue  seek 

Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was; 

For  beauty,  wit, 

High  birth,  vigor  of  bone,  desert  in 
service. 

Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  sub- 
jects all 

To  envious  and  calumniating  time. 

One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole 
world  kin,  — 

That  all  with  one  consent,  praise  new- 
bom  gauds, 

Though  they  are  made  and  moulded 
of  things  past ; 

And  give  to  dust,  that  is  a  little  gilt, 

More  laud  than  gilt  o'er-dusted. 

The  present  eye  praises  the  present 
object: 

Then  marvel  not,  thou  great  and 
complete  man, 

That  all  the  Greeks  begin  to  worship 
Ajax; 

Since  things  in  motion  sooner  catch 
the  eye 

Than  what  not  stirs. 


[From  Henry  VIII.'] 
LIFE'S    VICISSITUDES. 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  my 

greatness ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man :  To-day  he 

puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope,  to-morrow 

blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick 

upon  him ; 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing 

frost, 
And  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man, 

full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  nips  his 

root 
And  then  he  falls  as  I  do.     I  have 

ventured, 
Like  little  wanton  boys,  that  swim  on 

bladders. 
These  many   summers  in  a  sea   of 

glory; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth:  my  high- 
blown pride 


At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now 

has  left  me. 
Weary  and  old  with  service,  to  the 

mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever 

hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I 

hate  ye ! 


[From  Measure /or  Measure.] 
FEAR   OF  DEATH. 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not 

where ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot; 
This  sensible  wann  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod;  and  the  delighted 

spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed 

ice; 
To  be    imprisoned    in  the  viewless 

winds, 
And  blown   with    restless   violence 

round  about 
The  pendent  world:  or  to  be  worse 

than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain 

thoughts 
Imagine  howling:  'tis  too  horrible! 
The    weariest     and    most     loathed 

worldly  life, 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  impris- 
onment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death ! 


[From  The  Tempest.] 
END  OF  ALL  EARTHLY  GLORY. 

Our  revels  now  are  ended :  these  our 

actors. 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits, 

and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air ; 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this 

vision, 
The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous 

palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe 

itself, 


488 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dis- 
solve : 

And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant 
faded, 

Leave  not  a  rack  behind!  We  are 
such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little 
life 

Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 


[From  Cyrribeline.'] 
FEAR  NO  MORE. 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun. 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 
Home    art    gone,   and    ta'en    thy 
wages : 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat. 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak. 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must. 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Nor  th'  all- dreaded  thunder-stone ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash. 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan. 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must. 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust, 


[From  Venus  and  Adonis.'] 
THE  HORSE   OF  ADONIS. 

Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass 
the  life. 

In  limning  out  a  well-proportioned 
steed, 

His  art  with  Nature's  workmanship 
at  strife, 

As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  ex- 
ceed : 

So  did  this  horse  excel  a  common 
one 

In  shape,  in  courage,  color,  pace  and 
bone. 


Round-hoofed,  short-jointed,  fetlocks 

shag  and  long, 
Broad  breast,  full  eyes,  small  head, 

and  nostrils  wide, 
High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs, 

and  passing  strong, 
Thin  mane,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock, 

tender  hide : 
Look,  what  a  horse  should  have,  he 

did  not  lack. 
Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a 

back. 

Sometimes  he  scuds  far  off,  and  then 
he  stares; 

Anon  he  starts  at  stirring  of  a  feather. 

To  bid  the  wind  a  base  he  now  pre- 
pares 

And  whe'r  he  run,  or  fly,  they  know 
not  whether. 

For  through  his  mane  and  tail  the 
high  wind  sings. 

Fanning  the  hairs,  which  wave  like 
feathered  wings. 


LOVE,    THE  SOLACE   OF   PRESENT 
CALAMITY. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and 

men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  be  weep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf    heaven  with  my 

bootless  cries,  [fate. 

And  look  upon  myself,-and  curse  my 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in 

hope. 
Featured    like    him,   like  him  with 

friends  possessed. 
Desiring   this    man's  art,   and  that 

man's  scope. 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented 

least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost 

despising. 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  —  and  then 

my  state  .  [ing 

(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  ar:s- 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at 

heaven's  gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered, 

such  wealth  brings. 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my 

state  with  kings. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


489 


LOVE,    THE  RETRIEVER    OF  PAST 
LOSSES. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent 

tliouglit 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things 

past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I 

sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear 

time's  waste: 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused 

to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's 

dateless  night, 
And  weep   afresh  love's  long-since 

cancelled  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many-  a 

vanished  sight. 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  fore- 
gone. 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er, 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned 

moan. 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  be- 
fore. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee, 

dear  friend. 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows 

end. 


NO    SPRING     WITHOUT    THE    BE- 
LOVED. 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the 

spring, 
When  proud  pied  April,  dressed  in 

all  his  trim. 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every 

thing, 
That    heavy    Saturn    laughed    and 

leaped  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the 

sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in 

hue. 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story 

tell. 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them 

where  they  grew. 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white. 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the 

rose; 


They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of 

delight. 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all 
those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and,  you 

away. 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these 
did  play. 


LOVE   UNALTERABLE. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true 

minds 
Admit    impediments.     Love  is  not 

love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  re- 
move: 
O  no !  it  is  an  ever-fixM  mark. 
That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never 

shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although 

his  height  be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy 

lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass 

come; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours 

and  weeks 
But  bears  it  out  e'en  to  the  edge  of 

doom. 
If    this  be   error,   and   upon   me 

proved, 
I   never  writ,  nor  no  man   ever 

loved. 


TO  MY  SOUL. 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful 
earth. 

Fooled  by  those  rebel  powers  that 
thee  array. 

Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suf- 
fer dearth, 

Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly 
gay? 

WTiy  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a 
lease. 

Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion 
spend  ? 


490 


SHELLEY. 


Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  ex- 
cess, 

Eat  up  thy  charge  ?  Is  this  thy 
body's  end  ? 

Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  ser- 
vant's loss. 

And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy 
store : 


Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of 

dross ; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no 
more: 
So  Shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that 

feeds  on  men, 
And,  death  once  dead,  there's  no 
more  dying  then. 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


ONE    WORD  IS   TOO   OFTEN  PRO- 
FANED. 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it. 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  heavens  reject  not : 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river. 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean. 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  forever 

With  a  sweet  emotion ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle, — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth. 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea ; 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 


TO  A   SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 
•  Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart  [art. 

In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 
The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soar- 
ing ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is 
just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven. 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy 
shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear. 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is 
there 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and 
heaven  is  overflowed. 


SUELLEY. 


491 


What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain 
of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it 
heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-bom  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet    as  love,   which 
overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew. 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which 
screen  it  from  the  view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet 
these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and    clear,  and  fresh,  thy 
music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture 
so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some 
hidden  want. 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  moun- 
tains ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what 
ignorance  of  pain  ? 


With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's 
sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  deatli  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such 
a  crystal  stream  ? 


We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 
Witli  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell 
of  saddest  thought. 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy   joy  we  ever 
should  come  near. 


Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scomer 
of  the  ground! 


Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am 
listening  now. 


492 


SHELLEY. 


MUSIC,   WHEN   SOFT   VOICES  DIE. 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory, — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken. 
Live  witliin  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Eose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art 

gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


TIME. 


Unfathomable  Sea!  whose  waves 
are  years. 
Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of 
deep  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human 
tears ! 
Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy 
ebb  and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality ! 
And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for 

more, 
Yomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospi- 
table shore ; 
Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terrible  in 
storm. 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee. 
Unfathomable  Sea  ? 


THE  WORLD'S  WANDERERS. 

Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of 

light 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 
Will  thy  pinions  close  now? 

Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 
Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 

Weary  wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest. 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow  ? 


DEATH. 

Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there. 
Death  is  busy  everywhere, 
All  around,  within,  beneath. 
Above,  is  death, —  and  we  are  death. 

First  our  pleasures  die, —  and  then 
Our  hopes,  and  then  oiu-  fears, —  and 

when 
These  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due, 
Dust  claims  dust, —  and  we  die  too. 

All  things  that  we  love  and  cherish. 
Like  ourselves,  must  fade  and  perish; 
Such  is  our  rude  mortal  lot, — 
Love  itself  would,  did  they  not. 


THE   CLOUD. 

I  BEING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirst- 
ing flowers, 
From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves 
when  laid 
In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews 
that  waken 
The  sweet  buds  every  one. 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  moth- 
er's breast. 
As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail. 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 
And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  be- 
low, 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the    night  'tis    my  pillow 
white, 
While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the 
blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey 
bowers. 
Lightning,  my  pilot  sits. 
In  a  cavern  imder,  is  fettered  the 
thunder. 
It  struggles  and  howls  by  fits ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean  with   gentle 
motion. 
This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 


SHELLEY. 


493 


Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that 
move 
In  the  depths  of  the  pm-ple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the 
hills, 
Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain 
or  stream, 
The  spirit  he  loves,  remains ; 
And  I,  all  the  while,  bask  in  heaven's 
blue  smile, 
Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 


The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  me- 
teor eyes, 
And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 
When    the    morning-star    shines 
dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag. 
Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and 
swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 
In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  simset  may  breathe,  from 
the  lit  sea  beneath, 
Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine 
airy  nest, 
As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire 
laden, 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like 
floor, 
By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen 
feet. 
Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my 
tent's  thin  roof, 
The  stars  peep    behind    her    and 
peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and 
flee. 
Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind- 
built  tent. 
Till  the   calm   rivers,  lakes,  and 
seas. 


Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through 
me  on  high, 
Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and 
these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burn- 
ing zone,  I  pearl; 
And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars 
reel  and  swim, 
When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner 
unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge- 
like shape, 
Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  1  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I 
march. 
With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers   of   the   air   are 
chained  to  my  chair, 
Is  the  million-colored  bow; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors 
wove, 
While  the  moist  earth  was  laugh- 
ing below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean 
and  shores; 
I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never 
a  stain, 
The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with 
their  convex  gleams, 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a 
ghost  from  the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


FROM  "  THE  SENSITIVE-PLANT." 

A  SENSiTiVE-plant  in  a  garden  grew. 

And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  sil- 
ver dew. 

And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to 
the  light. 

And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses 
of  night. 


494 


SHELLEY. 


And  the  spring  arose  on  tlie  garden 
fair, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Love  fell  every- 
where ; 

And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's 
dark  breast 

Eose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry 
rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted 
with  bliss 

In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wil- 
derness, 

Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's 
sweet  want, 

As  the  companionless  sensitive-plant. 

The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet, 
Arose  from  the  groimd  with  warm 

rain  wet, 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with 

fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the 

instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the 
tulip  tall. 

And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them 
all, 

WTio  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the 
stream's  recess, 

Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  love- 
liness. 

And  the  Xaiad-like  lily  of  the  vale. 

Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  pas- 
sion so  pale, 

That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells 
is  seen 

Through  their  pavilions  of  tender 
green; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white, 
and  blue. 

Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet 
peal  anew 

Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  in- 
tense, 

It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the 
sense; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the 

bath  addrest. 
Which  unveiled  the  depth    of    her 

glowing  breast, 


Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting 

air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay 

bare; 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted 

up, 
As  a  Mienad,  its  moonlight-colored 

cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 
Gazed  through  the  clear  dew  on  the 

tender  sky; 

And  the    jessamine  faint,   and  the 

sweet  tuberose. 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that 

blows ; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every 

clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant 
bosom 

Was  prankt,  under  boughs  of  embow- 
ering blossom. 

With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting 
through 

Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 
And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 
And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did 

glide  and  dance 
With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and 

radiance. 


And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 

The  flowers, —  as  an  infant's  awaken- 
ing eyes 

Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing 
sweet 

Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken 
it,— 

When  heaven's  blithe  winds  had  un- 
folded them. 

As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden 
gem,  * 

Shone  smiling  to  heaven,  and  every 
one 

Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle 
sun; 


SHELLEY, 


496 


For  eacli  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  the  lisfht  and  the  odor  its  neigh- 
bor shed, 

Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and 
love  make  dear, 

Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual 
atmosphere. 

But  the  sensitive-plant,  which  could 
give  small  fruit 

Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  tlie 
leaf  to  tlie  root, 

Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more 
than  ever. 

Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  be- 
long to  the  giver, — 

For  the  sensitive-plant  has  no  bright 

flower ; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower ; 
It  loves,  even  like  love,  its  deep  heart 

is  full,  [ful! 

It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beauti- 


FliOM 


'TO  A    LADY   WITH  A 
GUITAR.'' 


The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 
To  echo  all  liarmonious  thought. 
Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 
The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 
Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 
On  the  wind-swept  Apennine ; 
And  dreaming,  some  of  autumn  past. 
And  some  of  spring  approacliing  fast, 
And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers. 
And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 
And  all  of  love;  and  so  this  tree, — 
O  that  such  our  death  may  be !  — 
Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 
To  live  in  happier  form  again: 
From  which,  beneath  heaven's  fair- 
est star, 
The  artist  wrought  this  loved  guitar, 
And  tauglit  it  justly  to  reply, 
To  all  who  question  skilfully, 
In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 
Whispering  in  enamored  tone 
Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells. 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells ; 
For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 
Of  tlie  plains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many-voiced  fountains; 


The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills. 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  murmuring  of  smnmer  seas. 
And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing 

dew. 
And  airs  of  evening;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound, 
Wliich,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way, — 
All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions ;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before, 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 
But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill. 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  friend  alone. 


GOOD-NIGHT, 

GooD-NTGHT  ?  ah!  no;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite ; 

Let  us  remain  together  still. 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good, 
Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its 
flight  ? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  understood, 
That  it  will  be  good  night. 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other 
move  [light, 

From  evening  close  to  morning 
The  night  is  good ;  because,  my  love. 

They  never  say  good-night. 


MUTABILITY. 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  mid- 
night moon ; 
How    restlessly    they    speed,    and 
gleam,  and  quiver. 
Streaking  the  darkness  radiantly!  — 
yet  soon 
Night  closes  round,  and  they  are 
lost  forever: 


496 


SHENSTONE. 


Or  like  forgotten  lyres,  whose  disso- 

We feel,  conceive  or  reason,  laugh  oj 

nant  strings 

weep ; 

Give  various  response  to  each  vary- 

Embrace   fond  woe,   or    cast   our 

ing  blast, 

cares  away. 

To  whose  frail  frame  no  second  mo- 

tion brings 

It  is  the  same!  — For,  be  it  joy  or 

One  mood  or  modulation  like  the 

sorrow. 

last. 

The  path  of  its  departure  still  is 

free; 

We  rest  —  a  dream  has  power  to  poi- 

Man's yesterday  may  ne'er  be  like 

son  sleep : 

his  morrow ; 

We  rise  —  one  wandering  thought 

Naught    may    endure   but   muta- 

pollutes the  day ; 

bility. 

William  Shenstone. 


STANZAS  FROM   ''THE  SCHOOL- 
MISTRESS." 

In  every  village  marked  with  little 
spire. 

Embowered  in  trees,   and  hardly 
known  to  fame. 

There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed,  and 
mean  attire, 

A  matron  old,  whom  we  school- 
mistress name ; 

Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch 
to  tame ; 

They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  dur- 
ance pent, 

Awed  by  the  power  of  this  relent- 
less dame; 

And  oft-times,    on    vagaries    idly 
bent. 
For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  imconned, 
are  sorely  shent. 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen 

tree. 
Which    learning    near    her    little 

dome  did  stow; 
Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to 

see, 
Though  now    so  wide  its  waving 

branches  flow,  [woe ; 

And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle 
For  not  a  wind    might  curl  the 

leaves  that  blew, 
But  their  limbs    shuddered,    and 

their  pulse  beat  low; 


And  as   they  looked  they  found 
their  horror  grow, 
And  shaped  it  into  rods,  and  tingled 
at  the  view. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch 

so  green. 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols 

do  display; 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning  board 

is  seen, 
Lest    weakly    wights     of    smaller 

size  should  stray; 
Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day ! 
The     noises     intermixed,     which 

thence  resound,  [tray; 

Do  learning's  little  tenement  be- 
Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in 

look  profound 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns 

her  wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven 
snow. 

Emblem  right  meet  of  decency 
does  yield: 

Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I 
trow,  [field: 

As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the 

And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she 
does  wield 

Tway  birchen  sprays ;  with  anxious 
fear  entwined. 

With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  re- 
pentance filled; 


SEENSTONE, 


497 


And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  af- 
fliction joined, 
And  fury  uncontroiied,  and  chastise- 
ment unkind. 


A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders 

thrown; 
A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping 

air; 
'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her 

own; 
'Twas  her  own  coimtry  bred  the 

flock  so  fair, 
'Twas  her  own  labor  did  the  fleece 

prepare : 
And,    sooth   to    say,  her   pupils, 

ranged  around. 
Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it 

passing  rare ; 
For  they  in  gaping  wonderment 

abound, 
And  think  no  doubt,  she  been  the 

greatest  wight  on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt   her 

truth, 
Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her 

ear; 
Goody,  good-woman,  gossip,  n'aunt, 

forsooth, 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did 

hear; 
Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she 

held  right  dear: 
Nor   would    esteem    him    act    as 

mought  behove. 
Who  should  not  honored  eld  with 

these  revere: 
For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could 

prove. 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did 

that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to 
feed ; 

The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy 
dame: 

Which,  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by 
need. 

Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chick- 
ens, came; 

Such  favor  did  her  past  deport- 
ment claim; 


And,  if  neglect  had  lavished  on  the 
ground 

Fragments    of   bread,  she   would 
collect  the  same, 

For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly 
could  expound. 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  small- 
est crumb  she  found. 


Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath's  de- 
cent eve, 

Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold 
forth  did  mete ; 

If  winter  'twere,  she  to  her  hearth 
did  cleave, 

But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer 
seat; 

Sweet  melody  to  hear  her  then 
repeat 

How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  for- 
eign king. 

While  taunting  foemen  did  a  song 
entreat. 

All,  for  the  nonce,  untuning  every 
string, 
Uphung  their  useless  lyres  —  small 
heart  had  they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  vir- 
tuous lore. 

And  passed  much  time  in  truly  vir- 
tuous deed ; 

And,  in  those  elfins'  ears,  would 
oft  deplore 

The  times,  when  truth  by  popish 
rage  did  bleed ; 

And  tortuous  death  was  true  devo- 
tion's meed; 

And  simple  Faith  in  iron  chains  did 
mourn. 

That  nould  on  wooden  image 
place  her  creed ; 

And  lawnly  saints  in  smouldering 
flames  did  burn : 
Ah!    dearest    Lord,    forefend    thilk 
days  should  ere  return. 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish 
stem. 

By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering 
eld  defaced. 

In  which,  when  he  receives  his  di- 
adem, 


498 


SHIBLEY. 


Our  sovereign  prince    and  liefest 

liege  is  placed. 
The  matron  sate;  and  some  with 

rank  she  graced. 
(The  scarce  of  children's  and  of 

courtiers'  pride!) 
Eedressed  affronts,  for  vile  affronts 

there  passed ; 
And  warned  them  not  the  fretful 

to  deride, 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever 

them  betide. 

Eight  well  she  knew  each  temper  to 

descry ; 
To  thwart  the  proud  and  the  sub- 
miss  to  raise ; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt 

on  high. 
And    some   entice    with    pittance 

small  of  praise; 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig 

she  frays  ; 
E'en  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power 

doth  hold, 
While  with  quaint  arts,  the  giddy 

crowd  she  sways. 
Forewarned,    if    little    bird    their 

pranks  behold, 
'Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the 

scene  unfold. 


WRITTEN  AT  AN  INN  AT  HENLEY. 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom,  I  retire 
From  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and 
din; 
Nor    art    thou    foimd    in   mansions 
higher 
Than  the  low  cot  or  humble  inn. 

'Tis  here  with  boundless    power    I 
reign. 
And  every  health  which  I  begin 
Converts  dull  port  to  bright  cham- 


pagne 


Such  freedom  crowns  it  at  an  inn, 

I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate, 
I  fly  from  Falsehood's  specious  grin ; 

Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate. 
And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 

Here,  waiter!  take  my  sordid  ore. 
Which  lackeys  else  might  hope  to 
win; 

It  buys  what  courts  have  not  in  store, 
It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  inn. 

Whoe'er  has  travelled  life's  dull 
round. 

Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 
May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 

His  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn. 


James  Shirley. 


[From  The  Contention  of  Ajax  and  Ulysses.] 
DEATH  THE  LEVELLER. 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armor  against  Fate  — 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings. 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and 
spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the 

field,  [kill; 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they 

But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must 
yield  — 


They  tame  but  one  another  still ; 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  Fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring 

breath. 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to 
death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow  — 
Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty 
deeds ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar,  now, 
See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds  ^' 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb  — 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell    sweet,    and   blossom    in    the 
dust. 


SIDNEY—  SIGOURNEY. 


499 


Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


SONNET  TO  SLEEP. 

Come,  sleep,  O  sleep,  the  certain  knot 

of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of 

woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's 

release, 
The   indifferent  judge    between  the 

higli  and  low ! 
With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from 

out  the  prease 
Of  those  tierce  darts,  Despair  at  me 

doth  throw: 


0  make  me  in  those  civil  wars  to 

cease ! 

1  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 
Take  thou    of  me  smooth  pillows, 

sweetest  bed; 

A  cliamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind 
to  light; 

A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head; 

And  if  tliese  things,  as  being  thine 
by  right, 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt 
in  me, 

Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  im- 
age see. 


Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE 
BODY. 

Companion  dear!  the  hour  draws 
nigh; 

The  sentence  speeds  —  to  die,  to  die. 

So  long  in  mystic  union  held. 

So  close  with  strong  embrace  com- 
pelled. 

How  canst  thou  bear  the  dread  de- 
cree, 

That  strikes  thy  clasping  nerves  from 
me? 

To  Him  who  on  this  mortal  shore, 

The  same  encircling  vestment  wore, 

To  Him  1  look,  to  Him  I  bend. 

To  Him  thy  shuddering  frame  com- 
mend, 

If  I  have  ever  caused  thee  pain. 

The  throbbing  breast,  the  burning 
brain. 

With  cares  and  vigils  turned  thee 
pale. 

And  scorned  thee  when  thy  strength 
did  fail  — 

Forgive!  —  Forgive! —  thy  task  doth 
cease, 

Friend !  I^over !  —  let  us  part  in  peace. 

If  thou  didst  sometimes  check  my 
force. 

Or,  trifling,  stay  mine  upward  course, 


Or  lure  from  Heaven  my  wavering 

trust, 
Or  bow  my  drooping  wing  to  dust  — 
I  blame  thee  not,  the  strife  is  done, 
I  knew  thou  wert  the  weaker  one, 
The  vase  of  earth,  the  trembling  clod, 
Constrained  to  hold  the    breath  of 

God. 
—  Well    hast    thou    in    my    service 

wrought ; 
Thy  brow  hath  mirrored    forth  my 

thought. 
To  wear  my  smile  thy  lip  hath  glowed, 
Thy  tear,  to  speak  my  sorrows,  flowed ; 
Thine  ear  hath  borne  me  rich  sup- 
plies 
Of' sweetly  varied  melodies; 
Thy  hands  my  prompted  deeds  have 

done, 
Thy  feet  upon  mine  errands  run ; 
Yes,  thou  hast  marked  my  bidding 

well. 
Faithful  and  true !  farewell,  farewell ! 

Go  to  thy  rest.    A  quiet  bed 

Meek    mother    Earth    with    flowers 

shall  spread. 
Where  I  no  more  thy  sleep  may  break 
With  fevered  dream,  nor  rudely  wake 
Thy  wearied  eyCc 


)00 


SIGOURNEY, 


Oh,  quit  thy  hold, 
For  thou  art  faint,  and  chill,  and  cold. 
And  long  thy  gasp  and  groan  of  pain 
Have  bound  me  pitying  in  thy  chain, 
Though  angels  urge  me  hence  to  soar. 
Where  I  shall  share  thine  ills  no  more. 
Yet  we  shall  meet.     To   soothe  thy 

pain 
Remember  —  we  shall  meet  again. 
Quell  with    this    hope    the  victor's 

sting, 
And  keep  it  as  a  signet-ring. 
When  the  dire  worm  shall  pierce  thy 

breast, 
And  nought  but  ashes  mark  thy  rest, 
When  stars  shall  fall,  and  skies  grow 

dark. 
And  proud  suns  quench  their  glow- 
worm spark, 
Keep  thou  that  hope,  to  light  thy 

gloom. 
Till  the  last  trumpet  rends  the  tomb. 
— Then  shalt  thou  glorious  rise,  and 

fair, 
Nor  spot,  nor  stain,  nor  wrinkle  bear. 
And  I,  with  hovering  wing  elate, 
The  bursting  of  thy  bonds  shall  wait. 
And  breathe  the  welcome  of  the  sky — 
"  No  more  to  part,  no  more  to  die, 
Co-heir  of  Immortality." 


BENE  VOLENCE. 

Whose  is  the  gold  that  glitters  in  the 

mine? 
And  whose  the  silver  ?    Are  they  not 

the  Lord's  ? 
And  lo !  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 
And  the  broad  earth  with  all    her 

gushing  springs 
Are  they  not  His  who  made  them  ? 

Ye  who  hold 

Slight  tenantry  therein,  and  call  your 
lands 

By  your  own  names,  and  lock  your 
gathered  gold 

From  him  who  in  his  bleeding  Sa- 
viour's name 

Doth  ask  a  part,  whose  shall  those 
riches  be 

When,  like  the  grass-blade  from  the 
autumn  frost, 

Ye  fall  away  ? 


Point  out  to  me  the  forms 
That  in  your  treasure-chambers  shall 

enact 
Glad  mastership,  and    revel    where 

you  toiled 
Sleepless  and  stern.     Strange  faces 

are  they  all. 
O  man!   whose  wrinkling    labor   is 

for  heirs 
Thou  knowest  not  who,  thou  in  thy 

mouldering  bed, 
Unkenned,    unchronicled    of   them, 

shall  sleep; 
Nor  will  they  thank  thee,  that  thou 

didst  bereave 
Thy  soul  of  good  for  them. 

Now,  thou  mayest  give 
The    famished    food,    the    prisoner 

liberty. 
Light  to  the  darkened  mind,  to  the 

lost  soul 
A  place  in  heaven.     Take  thou  the 

privilege 
With  solemn   gratitude.      Speck  as 

thou  art 
Upon  earth's  surface,  gloriously  exult 
To  be   co-worker  with  the  King  of 

kings. 

THE   CORAL  INSECT. 

Toil  on!  toil  on!  ye  ephemeral  train. 

Who  build  on  the  tossing  and  treach- 
erous main; 

Toil  on !  for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye 
mock, 

With  your  sand-based  structures,  and 
domes  of  rock; 

Your  colunms  the  fathomless  foun- 
tains lave, 

And  your  arches  spring  up  through 
the  crested  wave ; 

Ye' re  a  puny  race,  thus  boldly  to  rear 

A  fabric  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  drear. 

Ye  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret 
zone. 

The  ocean  is  sealed,  and  the  surge  a 
stone ; 

Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pave- 
ment spring, 

Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's 
king: 


SIMMS. 


601 


The  turf  looks  green  where  the  break- 
ers rolled, 

O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of 
gold,  [men. 

The  sea-snatched  isle  is  the  home  of 

And  mountains  exult  where  the  wave 
hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  bil- 
lows dark 

The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark? 

There  are  snares  enough  on  the 
tented  field ; 

'Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the 
valleys  yield ; 

There  are  serpents  to  coil  ere  the 
flowers  are  up : 

There's  a  poison  drop  in  man's  purest 
cup; 

There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cra- 
dle breath, 

And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with 
death  ? 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are 

white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics 

bright ; 


The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers 
cold 

With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls 
of  gold ; 

And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frowned 
to  see 

The  mariner's  bed  'mid  their  halls  of 
glee; 

Hath  earth  no  graves  ?  that  ye  thus 
must  spread 

The  boundless  sea  with  the  throng- 
ing dead  ? 

Ye  build!  ye  build!  but  ye  enter  not 
in; 

Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  de- 
voured in  their  sin ; 

From  the  land  of  promise,  ye  fade 
and  die. 

Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your 
wearied  eye. 

As  the  cloud-crowned  pyramids' 
founders  sleep 

Noteless  and  lost  in  oblivion  deep. 

Ye  slumber  unmarked  'mid  the  deso- 
late main. 

While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your 
works  remain. 


William  Gilmore  Simms. 

PROGRESS  IN  DENIAL. 

the  spirit  cries 
Mor- 


"  Yet,  onward  still! 
within, 
'Tis  I  that  must  repay  thee, 
tal  fame. 

It  won,  is  but  at  best  the  hollow  din, 
The  vulgar  freedom  with  a  mighty 

name ; 
Seek  not  this  music, —  ask  not  this 
acclaim, 
But  in  the  strife  find  succor;  —  for 
the  toil 
Pursued  for  such  false  barter  ends 
in  shame, 
As  certainly  as  that  which  seeks  but 

spoil! 
Best  recompense  he  finds,  who,  to 
his  task 
Brings  a  proud,  patient  spirit  that 
will  wait, 


Nor  for  the  guerdon  stoop,  nor  vainly 

ask 
Of  fate  or  fortune, —  but  with  right 

good-will,  [still, 

Go,  working  on,  and  uncomplaining 
Assured  of  fit  reward,  or  soon  or 

late! 


SOLACE  OF  THE   WOODS. 

Woods,    waters,    have  a  charm  to 

soothe  the  ear, 
When  common  sounds  have  vexed 

it.     When  the  day 
Grows  sultry,  and  the  crowd  is  in 

thy  way. 
And  working  in  thy  soul  much  coil 

and  care, — 
Betake  thee  to  the  forests.     In  the 

shade 


502 


SIMMS. 


Of  pines,  and  by  the  side  of  purl- 
ing streams 
That  prattle  all    their    secrets  in 
their  dreams, 
Unconscious  of  a  listener, — unafraid ; 
Thy  soul  shall  feel  their  freshening, 
and  the  truth 
Of    nature  then,  reviving  in  thy 
heart, 
Shall  bring  thee  the  best  feelings  of 
thy  youth, 
When  in  all  natural  joys  thy  joy 
had  part. 
Ere  lucre  and  the  narrowing  toils  of 

trade 
Had  turned  thee  to  the  thing  thou 
wast  not  made. 


RECOMPENSE. 

^OT  profitless  the  game,  even  when 
we  lose, 
Nor  wanting  in  reward  the  thank- 
less toil ; 
The  wild  adventure  that  the  man 
pursues, 
Requites  him,  though  he  gather  not 
the  spoil : 
Strength  follows  labor,  and  its  exer- 
cise 
Brings  independence,  fearlessness 
of  ill,— 
Courage  and  pride, — all  attributes  we 
prize ;  — 
Though  their  fruits  fail,  not  the 
less  precious  still. 
Though  fame  withholds  the  trophy  of 
desire. 
And  men  deny,  and  the  impatient 
throng 
Grow  heedless,  and  the  strains  pro- 
tracted, tire;  — 
Not  wholly  vain  the  minstrel  and 
the  song. 
If,  striving  to  arouse  one  heavenly 

tone 
In  others'  hearts,  it  wakens  up  his 
own. 

And  this,  methinks,  were  no  unseem- 
ly boast. 
In  him  who  thus  records  the  expe- 
rience 


Of  one,  the  humblest  of  that  erring 
host. 
Whose  labors  have  been  thought  to 
need  defence. 
What  though  he  reap  no  honors, — 

what  though  death 
Rise  terrible  between  him  and  the 

wreath, 
That  had  been  his  reward,  ere,  in  the 
dust. 
He  too  is  dust;  yet  hath  he  in  his 
heart, 
The  happiest  consciousness  of  what 
is  just. 
Sweet,  true,  and  beautiful, — which 
will  not  part  [faith, 

From  his  possession.     In  this  happy 
He  knows  that  life  is  lovely, —  that 

all  things 
Are  sacred ; —  that  the  air  is  full  of 
wings 
Bent  heavenward, —  and  that  bliss  is 
born  of  scath ! 


HEART  ESSENTIAL   TO   GENIUS. 

We  are  not  always  equal  to  our  fate, 
Nor  true  to  our  conditions.    Doubt 

and  fear 
Beset  the  bravest  in    their    high 
career, 
At  moments  when  the  soul,  no  more 
elate 
With  expectation,   sinks    beneath 

the  time. 
The  masters  have  their  weakness, 

"  I  would  climb," 
Said  Raleigh,  gazing  on  the  high- 
est hill, — 
"  But  that  I  tremble  with  the  fear  to 
fall!" 
Apt  was  the  answer  of  the  high- 
souled  Queen, — 
"  If  thy  heart  fail  thee,  never  climb 

at  all!" 
The  heart!  if  that  be  sound;  confirms 
the  rest, 
Crowns  genius  with  his  lion  will 
and  mien. 
And,  from  the  conscious  virtue  in  the. 
breast, 
To  trembling    nature  gives    both 
strength  and  will! 


SIMMS. 


508 


FRIENDSHIP. 

Though  wronged,  not  harsh  my  an- 
swer!   Love  is  fond, 
Even  pained, —  and  rather  to  his 

injury  bends, 
Than  cliooses  to  make  shipwreck 
of  his  friends 
By    stormy    summons.      He    hath 
naught  beyond 
For  consolation,  if  that  these  be 

lost; 
And  rather  will  he  hear  of  fortune 
crossed. 
Plans  baffled,  hopes  denied, — than 
take  a  tone 
Resentful, —  with  a  quick  and  keen 

reply 
To  hasty  passion  and    impatient 
eye, 
Such  as  by  noblest  natures  may  be 
shown, 
When  the  mood  vexes !  Friendship 

is  a  seed 
Needs  tendance.   You  must  keep  it 
free  from  weed, 
Nor,  if  the  tree  has  sometimes  bitter 

fruit. 
Must  you  for  this  lay  axe  unto  the 
root. 


UNHAPPY  CHILDHOOD. 

That  season  which  all  other  men  re- 
gret. 
And  strive,  with  boyish  longing,  to 
recall. 

Which  love  permits  not  memory  to 
forget, 
And  fancy  still  restores  in  dreams 
of  all 

That    boyhood    worshipped,   or   be- 
lieved, or  knew, — 

Brings  no  sweet  images  to  me, —  was 
true. 

Only  in  cold  and  cloud,  in  lonely 
days 
And  gloomy  fancies, — in  defrauded 

claims, 
Defeated  hopes,   denied,  denying 
aims;  — 

Cheered  by  no  promise, — lighted  by 
no  rays, 


Warmed  by  no  smile, —  no  mother's 

smile, —  that  smile. 
Of  all,  best  suited  sorrow  to  beguile, 
And  strengthen  hope,  and,  by  im- 

marked  degrees. 
Encourage  to  their  birth  high  pur- 


MANHOOD, 

Maioiood  at  last!— and,  with    its 
consciousness. 
Are  strength  and  freedom ;  freedom 
to  pursue 
The  purposes  of  hope, —  the  godlike 
bliss, 
Bom  in  the  struggle  for  the  great 
and  true! 
And  every  energy  that  should  be  mine, 
This  day,  I  dedicate  to  its  object, — 
Life! 
So  help  me.  Heaven,  that  never  I  re- 
sign 
The  duty  which  devotes  me  to  the 
strife ; 
The  enduring  conflict  which  demands 
my  strength, 
Whether  of  soul  or  body,  to  the 
last; 
The  tribute  of  my  years,  through  all 
their  length; 
The  future's  compensation  to  the 
past! 
Boys'  pleasures  are  for  boyhood, — its 

best  cares 
Befit  us  not  in  our  performing  years. 


NIGHT-STORM. 

This  tempest  sweeps  the  Atlantic!  — 
Nevasink 
Is  howling  to  the  capes !  Grim  Hat- 
teras  cries 
Like  thousand  damned  ghosts,  that 
on  the  brink 
Lift  their  dark  hands  and  threat 
the  threatening  skies ; 
Surging  through  foam  and  tempest, 
old  Roman 
Hangs  o'er  the  gulf,  and,  with  his 

cavernous  throat, 
Pours  out  the  torrent  of  his  wolfish 
note, 


504 


SMITH. 


And  bids  the  billows  bear  it  where 

they  can ! 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep,  and,  from 

the  cloud, 
Launches  the  bolt,  that,  bursting 

o'er  the  sea, 
Rends  for  a  moment  the  thick  pitchy 

shroud, 
And  shows  the  ship  the  shore  be- 
neath her  lee : 
Start  not,  dear  wife,  no  dangers  here 

betide, — 
And  see,  the  boy  still  sleeping  at 

your  side ! 


TRIUMPH. 

The  grave  but  ends  the    struggle! 
Follows  then 
The  triumph,   which,  superior  to 
the  doom, 


Grows  loveliest,  and  looks  best,  to 
mortal  men, 
Purple  in  beauty,  towering  o'er  the 
tomb  I 
Oh !  with  the  stoppage  of  the  impul- 
sive tide 
That    vexed  the  impatient  heart 

with  needful  strife. 
The  soul    that   is    hope's    living, 
leaps  to  life, 
And  shakes  her  fragrant  plumage  far 

and  wide! 
Eyes  follow  then  in  worship  which 
but  late 
Frowned    in    defiance,  —  and    the 
timorous  herd,  [word, 

That  sleekly  waited  for  another's 
Grow  bold,  at  last,  to  bring, —  obey- 
ing fate, — 
The  tribute  of  their  praise,  but  late 
denied, — 
Tribute  of  homage  which  is  some- 
times,—  hate  I 


Alexander  Smith. 

[Frovi  Norton.'] 
BARBARA. 

On  the  Sabbath-day, 

Through  the  church-yard  old  and  gray, 
Over  the  crisp  and  yellow  leaves  I  held  my  rustling  way; 
And  amid  the  words  of  mercy,  falling  on  my  soul  like  balms, 
'Mid  the  gorgeous  storms  of  music  —  in  the  mellow  .organ-calms, 
'Mid  the  upward-streaming  prayers,  and  the  rich  and  solemn  psalms, 

I  stood  careless,  Barbara. 

My  heart  was  otherwhere 

While  the  organ  shook  the  air. 
And  the  priest,  with  outspread  hands,  blessed  the  people  with  a  prayer; 
But,  when  rising  to  go  homeward,  with  a  mild  and  saint-like  shine 
Gleamed  a  face  of  airy  beauty  with  its  heavenly  eyes  on  mine  — 
Gleamed  and  vanished  in  a  moment —  Oh,  that  face  was  surely  thine 

Out  of  heaven,  Barbara  I 

O  pallid,  pallid  face ! 

O  earnest  eyes  of  grace ! 
When  last  I  saw  thee,  dearest,  it  was  in  another  place. 
You  came  running  forth  to  meet  me  with  my  love-gift  on  your  wrist; 
The  flutter  of  a  long  white  dress,  then  all  was  lost  in  mist  — 
A  purple  stain  of  agony  was  on  the  mouth  I  kissed, 

That  wild  morning,  Barbara  I 


SMITH.  505 


I  searched,  in  my  despair, 

Sunny  noon  and  midnight  air; 
I  could  not  drive  away  tlie  tliouglit  that  you  were  lingering  there. 
Oh,  many  and  many  a  winter  niglit  I  sat  wlien  you  were  gone, 
My  worn  face  buried  in  my  hands,  beside  the  fire  alone, 
Within  the  dripping  cliurch-yard,  the  rain  plashing  on  your  stone, 

You  were  sleeping,  Barbara ! 

'Mon§  angels,  do  you  think 

Of  the  precious  golden  link 
I  clasped  around  your  happy  arm  while  sitting  by  yon  brink  ? 
Or  when  that  night  of  gliding  dance,  of  laughter  and  guitars, 
Was  emptied  of  its  music,  and  we  watched,  through  latticed  bars, 
The  silent  midnight  heaven  creeping  o'er  us  with  its  stars, 

Till  the  day  broke,  Barbara  ? 

In  the  years  I've  changed; 

Wild  and  far  my  heart  hath  ranged. 
And  many  sins  and  errors  now  have  been  on  me  avenged; 
But  to  you  I  have  been  faithful,  whatsoever  good  I  lacked: 
I  loved  you,  and  above  my  life  still  hangs  that  love  intact  — 
Your  love  the  trembling  rainbow,  I  the  reckless  cataract  — 

Still  I  love  you,  Barbara ! 

Yet,  love,  I  am  unblest; 

With  many  doubts  opprest, 
I  wander  like  a  desert  wind,  without  a  place  of  rest. 
Could  I  but  win  you  for  an  hour  from  off  that  starry  shore. 
The  hunger  of  my  soul  were  stilled,  for  Death  hath  told  you  more 
Than  the  melancholy  world  doth  know ;  things  deeper  than  all  lore. 

You  could  teach  me,  Barbara ! 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain! 

You  will  never  come  again ! 
There  droops  upon  the  dreary  hills  a  mournful  fringe  of  rain ; 
The  gloaming  closes  slowly  round,  loud  winds  are  in  the  tree. 
Round  selfish  shores  forever  moans  the  hurt  and  wounded  sea. 
There  is  no  rest  upon  the  earth,  peace  is  with  Death  and  thee, 

Barbara! 


GLASGOW, 


Sing,  poet,  'tis  a  merry  world ; 
That   cottage    smoke  is  rolled  and 
curled 

In  sport,  that  every  moss 
Is  happy,  every  inch  of  soil ;  — 
Before  me  runs  a  road  of  toil 

With  my  grave  cut  across. 
Sing,  trailing   showers    and    breezy 

downs  — 
I  know  the  tragic  hearts  of  towns. 


City!  I  am  true  son  of  thine; 
Ne'er  dwelt  I  where  great  mornings 
shine 

Around  the  bleating  pens ; 
Ne'er  by  the  rivulets  I  strayed, 
And  ne'er  upon  my  childhood  weighed 

The  silence  of  the  glens. 
Instead     of     shores    where     ocean 

beats 
I  hear  the  ebb  and  flow  of  streets. 


606 


SMITH, 


Black  Labor  draws  his  weary  waves 
Into  their  secret  moaning  caves ; 

But,  with  the  morning  light, 
That  sea  again  will  overflow 
With  a  long,  weary  sound  of  woe, 

Again  to  faint  in  night. 
Wave  am  I  in  that  sea  of  woes. 
Which,  night  and  morning,  ebbs  and 
flows. 

I  dwelt  within  a  gloomy  court. 
Wherein  did  never  sunbeam  sport ; 

Yet  there  my  heart  was  stirred  — 
My  very  blood  did  dance  and  thrill, 
When  on  my  narrow  window-sill 

Spring  lighted  like  a  bird. 
Poor  flowers!  I  watched  them  pine 

for  weeks. 
With  leaves  as  pale  as  human  cheeks. 

Afar,  one  summer,  I  was  borne ; 
Through  golden  vapors  of  the  morn 

I  heard  the  hills  of  sheep : 
I  trod  with  a  wild  ecstasy 
The  bright  fringe  of  the  living  sea : 

And  on  a  ruined  keep 
I  sat,  and  watched  an  endless  plain 
Blacken  beneath  the  gloom  of  rain. 

Oh,  fair  the  lightly-sprinkled  waste, 
O'er  which  a  laughing  shower  has 
raced ! 

Oh,  fair  the  April  shoots! 
Oh,  fair  the  woods  on  summer  days, 
While  a  blue  hyacinthine  haze 

Is  dreaming  romid  the  roots! 
In  thee,  O  city !  I  discern 
Another  beauty,  sad  and  stern. 

Draw  thy  fierce  streams  of  blinding  ore. 
Smite  on  a  thousand  anvils,  roar 

Down  to  the  harbor-bars ; 
Smoulder  in  smoky  sunsets,  flare 
On  rainy  nights  ;   with  street    and 
square 

Lie  empty  to  the  stars. 
From  terrace  proud  to  alley  base 
I  know  thee  as  my  mother's  face. 

When  sunset  bathes  thee  in  his  gold. 
In  wreaths  of  bronze  thy  sides  are 

rolled. 
Thy  smoke  is  dusky  fire ; 
And,    from    the    gloiy   round    thee 

poured, 


A  sunbeam  like  an  angel's  sword 

Shivers  upon  a  spire. 
Thus  have  I  watched  thee,  Terror! 

Dream ! 
While  the  blue  night  crept  up  the 

stream. 

The  wild  train  plunges  in  the  hills, 
He  shrieks  across  the  midnight  rills ; 

Streams  through  the  shifting  glare. 
The  roar  and  flap  of  foundry  fires. 
That  shake  with  light  the  sleeping 
shires ; 

And  on  the  moorlands  bare 
He  sees  afar  a  crown  of  light 
Hang  o'er  thee  in  the  hollow  night. 

At  midnight,  when  thy  suburbs  lie 
As  silent  as  a  noonday  sky 

When  larks  Avith  heat  are  mute, 
I  love  to  linger  on  thy  bridge, 
All  lonely  as  a  mountain  ridge. 

Disturbed  but  by  my  foot ; 
While  the  black  lazy  stream  beneath 
Steals  from  its  far-off  wilds  of  heath. 

And  through  thy  heart  as  through  a 

dream, 
Flows     on     that    black    disdainful 

stream ; 
All  scornfully  it  flows. 
Between  the  huddled  gloom  of  masts, 
Silent  as  pines  unvexed  by  blasts  — 
'Tween  lamps  in  streaming  rows, 
O    wondrous    sight!     O    stream    of 

dread ! 

0  long,  dark  river  of  the  dead! 

Afar,  the  banner  of  the  year 
Unfurls :  but  dimly  prisoned  here, 

'Tis  only  when  I  greet 
A  dropt  rose  lying  in  my  way, 
A  butterfly  that  flutters  gay 

Athwart  the  noisy  street. 

1  know  the  happy  Summer  smiles 
Around  thy  suburbs,  miles  on  miles. 

'Twere  neither  psean  now,  nor  dirge, 
The  flash  and  thunder  of  the  surge 

On  flat  sands  wide  and  bare ; 
No  haunting  joy  or  anguish  dwells 
In  the  green  light  of  sunny  dells. 

Or  in  the  starry  air. 
Alike  to  me  the  desert  flower, 
The  rainbow  laughingo'er  theshower. 


SMITE. 


507 


While  o'er  thy  walls  the  darkness  sails, 
I  lean  against  the  churchyard  rails; 

Up  in  the  midnight  towers 
The  belfried  spire,  the  street  is  dead, 
I  hear  in  silence  overhead 

The  clang  of  iron  hours  : 
It  moves  me  not  —  I  know  her  tomb 
Is  yonder  in  the  shapeless  gloom. 

All  raptures  of  this  mortal  breath, 
Solemnities  of  life  and  death. 

Dwell  in  thy  noise  alone: 
Of  me  thou  hast  become  a  part  — 
Some  kindred  with  my  human  heart 

Lives  in  thy  streets  of  stone ; 
For  we  have  been  familiar  more 
Than  galley-slave  and  weary  oar. 

The  beech  is  dipped  in  wine;  the 

shower 
Is  burnished ;  on  the  swinging  flower 


The  latest  bee  doth  sit 
The  low  sun  stares  through  dust  of 

gold. 
And  o'er  the  darkening  heath  and 
wold 
The  large  ghost-moth  doth  flit. 
In  every  orchard  Autumn  stands, 
With  apples  in  his  golden  hands. 

But  all  these  sights  and  sounds  are 

strange ; 
Then  wherefore  from  thee  should  I 

range  ? 
Thou  hast  my  kith  and  kin ; 
My  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood 

brave ; 
Thou  hast  that  unf  orgotten  grave 

Within  thy  central  din. 
A  sacredness  of  love  and  death 
Dwells    in    thy    noise    and    smoky 

breath. 


Charlotte  Smith. 


THE  CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  humble  hearth; 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode. 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  w^arm  retreat 
With  a  song  most  soft  and  sweet ; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  song  as  I  can  give. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee. 
Thou  s'.rpassest,  happier  far. 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are ; 
Theirs  is  but  a  summer-song, 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpaired,  and  shrill,  and  clear, 
Melody  throughout  the  ^ear. 

Neither  night  nor  dawn  of  day 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  lay : 
Then,  insect!  let  thy  simple  song 
Cheer  the  winter  evening  long; 
While,  secure  from  every  storm, 
In  my  cottage  stout  and  warm, 
Thou  shalt  my  merry  minstrel  be, 
And  I'll  delight  to  shelter  thee. 


THE   CLOSE   OF  SPRING. 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so 
lately  wove. 
Each  simple  flower  which  she  had 
nursed  in  dew, 
Anemones  that  spangled  every  grove. 
The   primrose   wan,  and  harebell 
mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the 
dell, 
Or    purple    orchis    variegate    the 
plain, 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every 
bell, 
And  dress  with  humid  hands  her 
wreaths  again. 
Ah!    poor    humanity!    so    frail,    so 
fair. 
Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early 
day, 
Till    tyrant   passion   and  corrosive 
care 
Bid  all  thy  fairy  colors  fade  away ! 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers 

shall  bring; 
Ah!  why  has  Happiness  no  second 
Spring  ? 


508 


SMITH, 


Florence  Smith. 


[From  Rainbow-Songs.] 
THE  PURPLE  OF  THE  POET. 

Purple,  the  passionate  color! 

Purple,  the  color  of  pain! 
I  clothe  myself  in  the  rapture — 

I  count  the  suffering  gain ! 

The  sea  lies  gleaming  before  me, 
Pale  in  the  smile  of  the  sun — 

No  shadow  —  all  golden  and  azure  — 
The  joy  of  the  day  has  begun ! 

Throbbing  and  yearning  forever, 
With  longing  imsatisfied,  sweet  — 

Flushed  with  the  pain  and  the  rapture. 
Warm  at  the  sun-god's  feet  — 

In  the  glow  and  gloom  of  the  evening 
The  glory  is  reached  —  and  o'er- 
past ; 
Joy's  rose-bloom  has  ripened  to  pur- 
ple— 
'Twill  fade,  but  the  stars  shine  at 
last! 

Purple,  the  passionate  color! 

Robing  the  martyr,  the  king  — 
Regal  in  joy  and  in  anguish, 

Life's     blossom  ;    with,     ah!     its 
sting  — 

Give  me  the  sovereign  color — 
I'll  suffer  that  I  may  reign! 

The  poet's  moment  of  rapture 
Is  worth  the  poet's  pain! 


{From  Rainbow-Songs.'] 
THE    YELLOW  OF  THE  MISER. 

The   beautiful  color — the  color  of 

gold! 
How  it  sparkles  and  burns  in  the 

piled-up  dust! 
The  poets !  they  know  not,  they  never 

have  told 
Of  the  fadeless  color,  the  color  of 

gold  — 
Of  my  god  in  whom  I  trust ! 
Deep  down  in  the  earth  it  winds 

and  it  creeps  — 


In  her  sluggish  old  veins  'tis  the  warm 
rich  blood  — 

The  old  mother-monster!  how  sound- 
ly she  sleeps ! 

Come!  nearest  her  heart,  where  the 
strong  life  leaps  — 
We  drink,  we  bathe  in  the  flood ! 

Ah,  the  far-off  days !  was  I  ever  a 

child  ? 
— My  brain  is  so  dark,  and  my  heart 

has  grown  cold. 
Those  fields  where  the  golden-eyed 

buttercups  smiled 
Long  ago — did  I  love    them  with 

heart  unde  filed  ? 
Did  I  seek  the  flowers  for  the 

gold? 

Be  still!  O  thou  traitor  Remorse, 

at  my  heart, 
Whining  without  in  the  dark  at  the 

door — 
I  know  thee,  the  beggar  and  thief 

that  thou  art, 
Lying  low  at  my  threshold  —  I  bid 

thee  depart ! 
Thou  Shalt  dog  my  footsteps  no 

more. 

Wilt  thou  bring  me  the  faded  flow- 
ers of  my  youth  — 

With  hands  full  of  dead  leaves,  and 
lips  full  of  lies  — 

For  these  shall  I  yield  thee  my  treas- 
ure, in  sooth  ? 

Are  the  buttercup's  petals  pure  gold, 
say  truth ! 
Wilt  thou,  coin  me  the  daisy's 
eyes  ? 

I  hate  them !  the  smiling  flowers  in 
the  sun, 
And  the  yellow,  smooth  rays  that 

they  feed  on  at  noon  — 
Tis  the  hard  cold  gold  I  will  have  or 

none ! 
Come,  pluck  me  the  stars  down,  one 
by  one, 
Plant  me  the  pale  rich  moon ! 


SMITH. 


509 


Ah !  the  mystical  seed,  it  has  grown, 
it  has  spread ! 
—  But  the  sharp  star-points  they  are 

piercing  my  brow, 
And  the  rosy  home-faces  grow  livid 

and  dead 
In  the  terrible  color  the  fire-blossoms 
shed  — 
I  am  reaping  my  harvest  in  now! 

The  horrible  color  —  the  color  of 
flame! 
The  hot  sun  has  o'erflowed  from  his 

broken  urn  — 
O  thou  pitiless  sky !  wilt  thou  show 

me  my  shame  ? 
While  the  cursed  gold  clings  to  my 
fingers  like  name  — 
And  glitters  only  to  bum! 


SOMEBODY  OLDER. 

How  pleasant  it  is  that  always 
Tliere's  somebody  older  than  you — 

Some  one  to  pet  and  caress  you, 
Some  one  to  scold  you  too ! 

Some  one  to  call  you  a  baby, 
To  laugh  at  you  when  you're  wise; 

Some  one  to  care  when  you're  sorry, 
To  kiss  the  tears  from  your  eyes. 

Wlien  life  has  begim  to  be  weary, 
And  youth  to  melt  like  the  dew, 

To  know,  like  the  little  children. 
Somebody's  older  than  you! 

The  path  cannot  be  so  lonely. 
For  some  one  has  trod  it  before ; 

The  golden  gates  are  the  nearer, 
That  some  one  stands  at  the  door ! 

—  I  can  think  of  nothing  sadder 
Than  to  feel,  when  days  are  few, 

There's  nobody  left  to  lean  on, 
Nobody  older  than  you ! 

The  yoimger  ones  may  be  tender 
To  the  feeble  steps  and  slow ; 

But  they  can't  talk  the  old  times 
^  over  — 
Alas !  how  should  they  know  I 


'Tisa  romance  to  them  —  a  wonder 
You  were  ever  a  child  at  play ; 

But  the  dear  ones  waiting  in  Heaven 
Know  it  is  all  as  you  say. 

I  know  that  the  great  All-Father 
Loves  us  and  the  little  ones  too; 

Keep  only  child-like  hearted  — 
Heaven  is  older  than  you ! 


UNREQUITING, 

I  CAJJNOT  love  thee,  but  I  hold  thee 
dear  — 
Thou  must  not  stay  —  I  cannot  bid 
thee  go ! 
I  am  so  lonely,  and  the  end  draws 
near  — 
Ah,  love  me  still,  but  do  not  tell 
me  so! 

'Tis  but  a  little  longer — keep  thy 
faith! 
Though  love's  last  rapture  I  shall 
never  know, 
I  fain  would  trust  thee  even  unto 
death ; 
Ah,  love  me  still,  but  do  not  tell 


I  am  so  poor  I  have  no  self  to  give. 
And  less  than  all  I  will  not  offer, 
no! 
I  die,  but  not  for  thee  —  fain  would 
I  live  — 
Ay !  love  me  still,  but  do  not  tell 
me  so! 

Like  a  strange  flower  that  blossoms 
in  the  night, 
And  dies  at  dawn,  love  faded  long 
ago  — 
Bom  in  a  dream  it  perished  with  the 
light  — 
Lov'st  thou  me  still  ?    Ah,  do  not 
tell  me  so ! 

Let  me  imagine  that  thou  art  my 

friend  — 

No  less  —  no  more  I  ask  for  here 

below ! 

Be  patient  with  me  even  to  the  end — 

Loving  me  still,  thou  wilt  not  tell 


510 


SMITH. 


Those  words  were  sweet  once — never 
more  again ! 
—  I  thought  my  dream  had  van- 
ished, let  it  go! 
I  dreamed  of  joy  —  1  woke,  it  turned 
to  pain  —  [so ! 

Ah,  love  me  still,  but  never  tell  me 

I  cannot  lose  thee  yet,  so  near  to 
heaven ! 
There  with  diviner  love  all  souls 
shall  glow; 


There  is  no  marriage  bond,  no  vows 
are  given  — 
Thou' It  love  me  still,  nor  need  to 
tell  me  so ! 

Ah!  I  am  selfish,  asking  even  this  — 
I  cannot  love  thee,  nor  yet  bid  thee 
go! 
To  utter  love  is  nigh  love's  dearest 
bliss  — 
Thou  lov'st  me  still,  and  dost  not 
tell  me  so ! 


Horace  Smith. 


HYMN    TO   THE  FLOWERS. 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  eyes  with 
morn  to  twinkle 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's 
creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars 
sprinkle 

As  a  libation! 

Ye  matin  worshippers !  who  bending 

lowly 

Before    the    uprisen    sun  —  God's 

lidless  eye  —  [holy 

Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and 

Incense  on  high! 

Ye  bright  mosaics !  that  with  storied 
beauty 
The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tes- 
sellate, 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instruc- 
tive duty 

Your  forms  create ! 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral 
bell  that  swingeth 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  pass- 
ing air, 
Makes  sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever 
ringeth 

A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling 
arch  and  column 
Attest   the   feebleness   of   mortal 
hand. 


But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and 
solemn. 

Which  God  hath  planned ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our 
wonder. 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun 
•and  moon  supply  — 
Its  choir,  the  winds  and  waves  ;  its 
organ,  thunder  ; 

Its  dome  the  sky. 

There — as  in  solitude  and  shade  I 
.  wander 
Through    the    green    aisles,    or, 
stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  pon- 
der 

The  ways  of  God  — 

Your  voiceless   lips,  O  flowers,  are 
living  preachers. 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a 
book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy,    numerous 
teachers 

From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles!  that  in  dewy  splen- 
dor 
"Weep  without  woe,   and   blush 
without  a  crime," 
O  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'«r  sur- 
render, 

Your  lore  sublime  I 


SMITH. 


511 


"  Thou  wert  not,  Solomon!  in  all  thy 
glory, 
Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes 
like  ours; 
How  vain  your  grandeur!  Ah,  how 
transitory 

Are  human  flowers!" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  Heav- 
enly Artist! 
With  which  thou  paintest  Nature's 
wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  im- 
partest 

Of  love  to  all. 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers!  though 
made  for  pleasure: 
Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by 
day  and  night, 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids 
me  treasure 

Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral    sages!  what  instructors 

hoary 
For  such  a  world  of  thought  could 

furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  7nori, 

Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Postliumous  glories!    angel-like  col- 
lection ! 
Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred 
in  earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I,  O  God,  in  churchless  lands 
remaining. 
Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or 
divines. 
My  soul  would  find  in  flowers  of  thy 
ordaining. 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines! 


ADDRESS   TO  A  MUMMY. 

And  thou  hast  walked  about,  (how 
strange  a  story!) 
In  Thebes's  streets  three  thousand 
years  ago, 


When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its 
glory, 
And  Time  had  not  begun  to  over- 
throw 

Those    temples,    palaces,  and  piles 
stupendous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremen- 
dous. 

Speak!   for  thou  long  enough  hast 

acted  dummy ; 
Thou  hast  a  tongue  —  come  —  let 

us  hear  its  tune ; 
Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above 

ground,  mummy! 
Revisiting    the    glimpses    of    the 

moon  — 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied 

creatures. 
But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and 

limbs,  and  features. 

Tell  us  —  for   doubtless   thou  canst 

recollect  — 
To  whom  should  we    assign  the 

Sphinx's  fame  ? 
Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 
Of  either  Pyramid  that  bears  his 

name  ? 
Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer? 
Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung 

by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  mason,  and  for- 
bidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secret  of  thy 
trade  — 

Then  say  what  secret  melody  was 
hidden 
In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sun- 
rise played  ; 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest  —  if  so, 
my  struggles 

Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns 
its  juggles. 

Perhaps  that  very  hand,  now  pin- 
ioned flat, 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh, 
glass  to  glass ; 
Or  dropped  a  half-penny  in  Homer's 
hat; 
Or  doffed  thine  own,  to  let  Queen 
Dido  pass; 


612 


SMITH. 


Or  held,  by  Solomou's  own  invitation, 
A  torch  at  the  great  Temple's  dedica- 
.  tion. 

I  need  not  ask   thee  if  that  hand, 

when  armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and 

knuckled ; 
For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and 

embalmed. 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been 

suckled ; 
Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 
Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  could' St  develop  —  if  that  with- 
ered tongue 
Might  tell  US  what  those  sightless 
orbs  have  seen  — 

How  the  world   looked  when  it  was 
fresh  and  young. 
And  the  great  Deluge  still  had  left 
it  green ;  Ipages 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  history's 

Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  silent,  incommunicative  elf ! 
Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?  then  ieep 
thy  vows ; 

But  prythee    tell  us    something    of 
thyself  — 
Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison- 
house  ; 

Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou 
hast  slumbered  — 

What  hast  thou  seen  —  what  strange 
adventures  numbered  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box 

extended 
We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some 

strange  mutations ; 
The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and 

ended  — 
New  worlds  have  risen — we  have 

lost  old  nations ; 
And  countless  kings  have  into  dust 

been  humbled. 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has 

crumbled. 


Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er 

thy  head, 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror, 

Cambyses, 
Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with 

thundering  tread  — 
O'erthrew    Osiris,      Orus,     Apis, 

Isis; 
And  shook  the  Pyramids  with  fear 

and  wonder. 
When    the    gigantic    Memnon    fell 

asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  con- 
fessed, 
The  nature  of  thy  private  life  un- 
fold: 

A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that 
leathern  breast. 
And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek 
have  rolled ; 

Have   children  climbed  those  knees 
and  kissed  that  face  ; 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age 
and  race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh!     Immortal  of  the 
dead ! 
Imperishable  type  of  evanescence ! 

Posthumous   man,  who  quit'  st  thy 
narrow  bed. 
And  standest  undecayed  within  our 
presence ! 

Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  Judg- 
ment morning. 

When   the  great  trump  shall  thrill 
thee  with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument 
endure, 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for- 
ever ? 

Oh!  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed 
and  pure 
In  living  virtue—  that  when  both 
must  sever. 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame 
consume. 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may 
bloom  1 


SMITH. 


.513 


May  Riley  Smith. 


IF. 

If,  sitting  with  this  little  worn-out 
shoe 
And  scarlet  stocking  lying  on  my 
knee, 
I  knew  his  little  feet  had  pattered 
through 
The  pearl-set  gates  that  lie  'twixt 
heaven  and  me, 
I  should  be  reconciled  and  happy  too. 
And  look  with  glad  eyes  toward  the 
jasper  sea. 

If,  in  the  morning,  when  the  song  of 
birds. 
Reminds  me  of  lost  music  far  more 
sweet, 
I  listened  for  his  pretty  broken  words. 
And  for  the  music  of  his  dimpled 
feet, 
I  could  be  almost  happy,  though  I 
heard 
No  answer,  and  I  saw  his  vacant 
seat. 

I  could  be  glad  if,  when  the  day  is 

done. 

And  all  its  cares  and  heart-aches 

laid  away,  [sun, 

I  could  look  westward  to  the  hidden 

And,  with  a  heart  full  of    sweet 

yearnings,  say  — 

"  To-night  I'm  nearer  to  my  little  one 

By  just  the  travel  of  a  single  day." 

If  he  were  dead,  I  should  not  sit  to- 
day 
And  stain  with  tears  the  wee  sock 
on  my  knee ; 
I  should  not  kiss  the  tiny  shoe  and  say, 
"  Bring  back  again-  my  little  boy 
to  me!" 
I  should  be  patient,  knowing  it  was 
God's  way, 
And  wait  to  meet  him  o'er  death's 
silent  sea. 

But  oh!  to  know  the  feet,  once  pure 
and  white, 
The  haunts  of  vice  have  boldly  ven- 
tured in! 


The  hands  that  should  have  battled 
for  the  right 
Have  been  wrung  crimson  in  the 
clasp  of  sin ! 
And  should  he  knock  at   Heaven's 
gate  to-night, 
I  fear  my  boy  could  hardly  enter  in. 


SOMETIME. 

Sometime,   when   all  life's  lessons 

have  been  learned. 
And    sun  and    stars   forevermore 

have  set. 
The  things   which   our  weak  judg- 
ments here  have  spurned. 
The  things  o'er  which  we  grieved 

with  lashes  wet. 
Will  flash  before  us  out  of  life's  dark 

night. 
As  stars  shine  most  in  deeper  tints 

of  blue; 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans 

are  right. 
And'  how  what  seemed  reproof  was 

love  most  true. 

And  we   shall  see    how,  while  we 
frown  and  sigh, 
God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you 
and  me; 
How,  when  we  called.  He  heeded  not 
our  cry, 
Because    His  wisdom  to  the  end 
could  see. 
And  e'en  as  prudent  parents  disallow 
Too  much  of  sweet  to  craving  baby- 
hood. 
So  God,  perhaps,  is  keeping  from  us 
now 
Life's  sweetest  things,  because  it 
seemeth  good. 

And  if,  sometimes,  commingled  with 
life's  wine. 
We  find  the  wormwood,  and  rebel 
and  shrink. 
Be  sure  a  wiser  hand  than  yours  or 
mine 
Pours  out  the  potion  for  our  lips  to 
drink; 


6U 


SOUTHEY. 


And  if  some  friend  we  love  is  lying 
low, 

Where  human  kisses  cannot  reach  his 
face, 

Oh,  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so, 
But  wear  your  sorrow  with  obe- 
dient grace ! 

And  you    shall   shortly  know   that 
lengthened  breath 
Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends 
His  friend, 
And  that,  sometimes,  the  sable  pall 
of  death 
Conceals  the  fairest  boon  His  love 
can  send.  [life, 

?f  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of 
And  stand  within  and  all  God's 
workings  see, 


We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and 

strife  [key. 

And  for  each  mystery  could  find  a 

But  not  to-day.      Then  be  content, 

poor  heart ; 
God's  plans  like    lilies    pure  and 

white  unfold ; 
We    must    not    tear    the  close-shut 

leaves  apart,  [gold. 

Time  will    reveal  the   calyxes    of 

And    if,,  through    patient    toil,    we 

reach  the  land 
Where    tired    feet,  with    sandals 

loosed,  may  rest. 
When  we  shall    clearly  know    and 

understand, 
I    think  that  we  shall   say,    "  God 

knew  the  best! " 


Caroline  Bowles  Southey. 


LAUNCH  THY  BARK,  MARINER. 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee; 
Let  loose  the  rudder  bands, 

Good  angels  lead  thee! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily, 

Christian,  steer  home! 

Look  to  the  weather  bow, 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now. 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail,  there ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast ! 
So  —  let  the  vessel  wear,  — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

What  of  the  night,  watchman  ? 

What  of  the  night  ? 
"  Cloudy,  all  quiet,  — 

No  land  yet,  — all's  right." 
Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant,  — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  iiour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 

How !  gains  the  leak  so  fast  ? 
Clear  out  the  hold,  — 


Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold ; 
There,  let  the  ingots  go ;  — 

Now  the  ship  rights ; 
Hurrah!  the  harbor's  near,  — 

Lo !  the  red  lights. 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on, 

Cut  through  the  foam ;  — 
Christian !  cast  anchor  now,  — 

Heaven  is  thy  home ! 


THE  PAUPER'S  DEATH-BED. 

Tread  softly !  bow  the  head  — 
In  reverent  silence  bow ! 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll ; 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger,  however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow! 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed  — 
One  by  that  paltry  bed — 
Greater  than  thou. 


SOUTHEY. 


515 


Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo !  Death  doth  keep  his  state ! 
Enter!  —  no  crowds  attend  — 
Enter!  —  no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement  damp  and  cold 
No  smiling  courtiers  tread ; 

One  silent  woman  stands. 

Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound  — 

An  infant  wail  alone; 
A  sob  suppressed  —  again 
That  short  deep  gasp  —  and  then 

The  parting  groan ! 

O  change !  —  O  wondrous  change  1 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars ! 

This  moment  there,  so  low, 

So  agonized  —  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars ! 


O  change !  —  stupendous  change! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod! 
The  sun  eternal  breaks ; 
The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 


/  NEVER   CAST  A  FLOWER  AW  AT, 

1  NEVER  cast  a  flower  away, 
The  gift  of  one  who  cared  for  me  — 

A  little  flower  —  a  faded  flower — 
But  it  was  done  reluctantly. 

I  never  looked  a  last  adieu 
To  things  familiar,  but  my  heart 

Shrank  with  a  feeling  almost  pain 
Even  from  their  iif elessness  to  part. 

I  never  spoke  the  word  "  Farewell," 
But  with  an  utterance  faint  and 
broken ; 

An  earth-sick  longing  for  the  time 
When  it  shall  nevennore  be  spoken, 


Robert  Southey. 


[From  Thalaha.'] 

NATURE'S  Q  UES  TION  AND  FAITH'S 
ANSWER. 

Alas  !  the  setting  sun 
Saw  Zeinab  in  her  bliss, 
Hodeirah's  wife  beloved. 
Alas !  the  wife  beloved. 
The  fruitful  mother  late. 
Whom  when  the  daughters  of  Arabia 
named. 
They  wished  their  lot  like  hers, — 
She  wanders  o'er  the  desert  sands 
A  wretched  widow  now ; 
The  fruitful  mother  of  so  fair  a  race, 
With  only  one  preserved. 
She  wanders  o'er  the  wilderness. 

No  tear  relieved  the  burden  of 
her  heart; 
Stunned  with  the  heavy  woe,  she 
felt  like  one. 
Half-wakened  from  a  midnight  dream 
of  blood. 
But  sometimes,  when  the  boy 


Would  wet  her  hand  with  tears, 
And,  looking  up  to  her  fixed  coun- 
tenance. 
Sob  out  the  name  of  mother!    then 
she  groaned. 
At  length  collecting,  Zeinab  turned 
her  eyes 
To  heaven,  and  praised  the  Lord: 
"  He  gave,  he  takes  away ! " 
The  pious  sufferer  cried ; 
"  The  Lord  our  God  is  good! " 

"  Good,  is  he  ?  "  quoth  the  boy: 
"  Why  are  my  brethren  and  my  sis- 
ters slain  ? 
Why  is  my  father  killed  ? 
Did  ever  we  neglect  our  prayers. 
Or   ever    lift    a    hand  unclean  to 
Heaven  ? 
Did  ever  stranger  from  our  tent 
Unwelcomed  turn  away  ? 
Mother,  He  is  not  good!" 

Then    Zeinab  beat  her  breast  in 
agony,  — 
"  O  God,  forgive  the  child/ 


516 


SOUTHEY. 


He  knows  not  what  he  says ; 
Thou  know'st  I  did  not  teach  him 
tlioughts  like  these; 
O  Prophet,  pardon  him!  " 

She  had  not  wept  till  that  assuag- 
ing prayer  ; 
The  fountains  of  her  grief  were 
opened  then, 
And  tears  relieved  her  heart. 
She  raised  her  swimming  eyes  to 
heaven,  — 
"  Allah!  thy  will  be  done! 
Beneath  the  dispensations  of  that 
will 
I  groan,  but  murmur  not. 
A  day"  will  come  when  all  things 
that  are  dark 
Will    be  made  clear:    then    shall  I 
know,  O  Lord ! 
Why,   in    thy    mercy,    thou    hast 
stricken  me ; 
Then  see  and  understand  what 
now 
My  heart  believes  and  feels." 


[From  Thalaba.] 
REMEDIAL  'SUFFERING. 

"  Repine  not,  O  my  son!"  the  old 
man  replied, 
"  That  Heaven  hath  chastened  thee. 
Behold  this  vine: 
I  found  it  a  wild  tree,  whose  wan- 
ton strength 
Had  swoln  into  irregular  twigs. 

And  bold  excrescences, 
And  spent  itself  in  leaves  and  lit- 
tle rings; 
So,    in    the    flourish    of    its    out- 
wardness, 
Wasting  the  sap  and  strength 
That    should    have    given    forth 
fruit. 
But  when  I  pruned  the  plant. 
Then    it    grew  temperate    in   its 
vain  expense 
Of   useless  leaves,  and  knotted,   as 
thou  seest. 
Into  these  full,  clear  clusters,  to 
repay 


The  hand  that  wisely  woimded  it. 

Repine  not,  O  my  son  ! 
In  wisdom   and   in    mercy  Heaven 
inflicts 

Its  painful  remedies." 


[From  Thalaba.] 

THE  TWOFOLD  POWER  OF  ALL 
THINGS. 

All  things  have  a  double  power. 
Alike  for  good  and  evil.    The  same 
fire, 
That  on  the  comfortable  hearth 
at  eve 
Warmed  the  good  man,  flames  o'er 
the  house  at  night : 
Should  we  for  this  forego 
The  needful  element  ? 
Because  the  scorching  summer 
sun 
Darts  fever,  wouldst  thou  quench  the 
orb  of  day  ? 
Or  deemest  thou  that  Heaven  in 
anger  formed 
Iron    to  till    the  field,  because, 

when  man 
Had  tipt  his  arrows  for  the  chase, 
he  rushed 
A  murderer  to  the  war  ? 


[From  Thalaba.] 
NIGHT. 

How  beautiful  is  night ! 
A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent 
air; 
No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud  nor  speck 
nor  stain 
Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven ; 
In  full-orbed  glory  yonder  moon 
divine 
Rolls  through  the  dark  blue 

depths. 
Beneath  her  steady  ray 
The  desert-circle  spreads. 
Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  with 
the  sky. 
How  beautiful  is  night  1 


SOUTHEY. 


517 


{From  The  Curse  of  Kehama.^ 
LOVE'S  IMMORTALITY. 

They  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die. 
With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 
In  heaven,  Ambition  cannot  dwell, 
Nor  Avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell ; 
Earthly,  these  passions  of  the  earth 
They  perish  where  they  had  their 
birth. 

But  Love  is  indestructible, 
Its  holy  flame  forever  burneth, 
From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  re- 

tumeth. 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest. 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified. 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest ; 
It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 
But  the  harvest-time  of  Love  is  there. 
Oh !  when  a  mother  meets  on  high 
The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy. 
Hath  she  not  then,   for  pains  and 
fears, 

The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night. 
For  all  her  sorrows,  all  her  tears. 

An  over-payment  of  delight ! 


THE   OLD   MAN'S   COMFORTS,  AND 
HOW  HE   GAINED   THEM. 

You  are   old,  Father  William,  the 
young  man  cried, 
The  few  locks  that  are  left  you  are 
gray: 
You   are   hale,    Father   William,   a 
hearty  old  man, 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth.  Father  Wil- 
liam replied, 
I  remembered  that  youth  would  fly 
fast. 
And  abused  not  my  health  and  my 
vigor  at  first. 
That  I  never  might  need  them  at 
last. 

You   are  old,   Father  William,  the 
young  man  cried. 
And    pleasures    with   youth   pass 
away, 


And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that 
are  gone, 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth.  Father  Wil- 
liam replied, 
I  remembered  that  youth  could  not 
last; 
I  thought  of  the  futm-e,  whatever  I 
did. 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the 
past. 

You  are   old.   Father  William,    the 
young  man  cried. 
And  life  must  be  hastening  away: 
You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  con- 
verse upon  death ! 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

I  am  cheerful,  young  man,  Father 
William  replied; 
Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage ; 
In  the  days  of  ray  youth  I  remem- 
bered my  God ! 
And  he  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 


[From  Joan  of  Arc] 

THE  MAID   OF  ORLEANS   GIRDING 
FOR  BATTLE. 

ScAKCE   had  the  earliest  ray  from 

Chinon's  towers 
Made  visible  the  mists  that  curled 

along 
The  winding  waves  of  Vienne,  when 

from  her  couch 
Started    the    martial     maid.     *She 

mailed  her  limbs; 
The  white  plumes  nodded  o'er  her 

helmed  head ; 
She  girt  the  sacred  falchion  by  her 

side, 
And,  like  some  youth  that  from  his 

mother's  arms, 
For  his  first  field  impatient,  breaks 

away. 
Poising  the  lance  went  forth. 

Twelve  hundred  men, 
Rearing  in  ordered  ranks  their  well* 

sharped  spears, 


518 


SOUTHEY. 


Await  her  coming.     Terrible  in  arms, 

Before  them  towered  Dunois,  his 
manly  face 

Dark-shadowed  by  the  helmet's  iron 
cheeks. 

The  assembled  court  gazed  on  the 
marshalled  train, 

And  at  the  gate  the  aged  prelate  stood 

To  pour  his  blessing  on  the  chosen 
host. 

And  now  a  soft  and  solemn  sym- 
phony 

Was  heard,"  and  chanting  high  the 
hallowed  hymn. 

From  the  near  convent  came  the  ves- 
tal maids. 

A  holy  banner,  woven  by  virgin 
hands, 

Snow-white,  they  bore.  A  mingled 
sentiment 

Of  awe,  and  eager  ardor  for  the 
fight, 

Thrilled  through  the  troops,  as  he, 
the  reverend  man 

Took  the  white  standard,  and  with 
heavenward  eye 

Called  on  the  God  of  Justice,  bless- 
ing it. 

The  maid,  her  brows  m  reverence 
unhelmed. 

Her  dark  hair  floating  on  the  morn- 
ing gale. 

Knelt  to  his  prayer,  and  stretchmg 
forth  her  hand. 

Received  the  mystic  ensign.  From 
the  host 

A  loud  and  universal  shout  burst 
forth, 

As  rising  from  the  ground,  on  her 
white  brow 

She*  placed  the  plumed  casque,  and 
waved  on  high 

The  bannered  lilies. 


THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

O  EEADER !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to 
see 
The  holly-tree? 
The  eye  that   contemplates  it  well 
perceives 
Its  glossy  leaves 


Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As    might    confound    the    atheist's 
sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are 

seen 
Wrinkled  and  keen. 
No     grazing    cattle    through    their 

prickly  round 
Can  reach  to  wound ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is 

to  fear. 
Smooth,  and  unarmed  the  pointless 

leaves  appear. 

I  love  to  view  these  things  with  cu- 
rious eyes. 
And  moralize; 
And  in  the  wisdom  of  the  holly-tree 

Can  emblems  see 
Wherewith    perchance    to    make    a 

pleasant  rhyme, 
Such  as  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

So,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might 
appear 
Harsh  and  austere. 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  in- 
trude 
Reserved  and  rude; 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd 
be. 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly- 
tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt, 
I  know, 
Some  harshness  show. 
All  vain  asperities,  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away. 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age 

should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly- 
tree. 

And  as  when  all  the  summer  trees 
are  seen 
So  bright  and  green 

The  holly  leaves  their  fadeless  hues 
display 
Less  bright  than  they, 

But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods 
we  see. 

What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly- 
tree? 


SOUTHEY. 


519 


So  serious  should  my  youth  appear 
among 
The  thoughtless  throng ; 
So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and 
gay 
More  grave  than  they, 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly-tree. 


THE  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL. 

What!  and  not  one  to  heave  the 
pious  sigh  ? 

Not  one  whose  sorrow-swollen  and 
aching  eye 

For  social  scenes,  for  life's  endear- 
ments fled, 

Shall  drop  a  tear  and  dwell  upon  the 
dead ! 

Poor  wretched  outcast!  I  will  weep 
for  thee, 

And  sorrow  for  forlorn  humanity. 

Yes,  I  will  weep ;  but  not  that  thou 
art  come 

To  the  stern  sabbath  of  the  silent 
tomb ; 

For  squalid  want,  and  the  black  scor- 
pion care, 

Heart-withering  fiends!  shall  never 
enter  there. 

I  sorrow  for  the  ills  thy  life  hath 
known, 

As  through  the  world's  long  pilgrim- 
age, alone, 

Haunted  by  poverty,  and  woebegone, 

Unloved,  unfriended,  thou  didst  jour- 
ney on : 

Thy  youth  in  ignorance  and  labor 
past, 

And  thine  old  age  all  barrenness  and 
blast. 

Hard  was  thy  fate,  which,  while  it 
doomed  to  woe, 

Denied  thee  wisdom  to  support  the 
blow; . 

And  robbed  of  all  its  energy  thy  mind. 

Ere  yet  it  cast  thee  on  thy  fellow- 
kind. 

Abject  of  thought,  the  victim  of  dis- 
tress. 

To  wander  in  the  world's  wide  wilder- 
ness. 


Poor  outcast,  sleep  in  peace!  the  win- 
try storm 

Blows  bleak  no  more  on  thy  unshel- 
tered form; 

Thy  woes  are  past;  thou  restest  in 
the  tomb ;  — 

I  pause,  and  ponder  on  the  days  to 
come. 


WRITTEN  ON  SUNDAY  MORNING. 
Go  thou  and  seek  the  house   of 


prayer 


I  to  the  woodlands  wend,  and  there 
In  lovely  nature  see  the  God  of  love. 
The  swelling  organ's  peal 
Wakes  not  my  soul  to  zeal, 
Like  the  wild  music  of  the  wind- 
swept grove. 
The  gorgeous  altar  and  the  mystic 

vest 
Rouse  not  such  ardor  in  my  breast, 
As  where  the  noon-tide  beam 
Flashed  from  the  broken  stream, 
Quick  vibrates  on  the  dazzled  sight; 
Or  where  the  cloud-suspended  rain 
Sweeps  in  shadows  o'er  the  plain; 
Or  when  reclining  on  the  cliff's  huge 

height, 
I  mark  the  billows  burst  in  silver 
light. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  house  of 

prayer! 
I  to  the  woodlands  shall  repair. 
Feed  with  all  nature's  charms  mine 

eyes. 
And  hear  all  nature's  melodies. 
The  primrose  bank  shall  there  dis- 
pense 
Faint  fragrance  to  the  awakened 

sense : 
The  morning  beams  that  life  and 

joy  impart, 
Shall  with  their  influence  warm  my 

heart. 
And    the    full  tear    that  down  my 

cheek  will  steal, 
Shall  speak  the  prayer  of  praise  I 

feel. 

Go   thou   and  seek  the  house  of 
prayer ! 


620 


SOUTHEY. 


I  to  the  woodlands  bend  my  way 

And  meet  Religion  there. 
She  needs  not  haunt  the  high-arched 

dome  to  pray 
Where    storied  windows     dim     the 

doubtful  day. 
With  Liberty  she  loves  to  rove, 
Wide  o'er  the  heathy  hill  or  cow- 

slipt  dale ; 
Or  seek  the  shelter  of  the  embower- 
ing grove, 
Or  with  the  streamlet  wind  along 

the  vale. 
Sweet  are  these  scenes  to  her;  and 

when  the  night 
Pours  in  the  north  her  silver  streams 

of  light. 
She    woos    reflection    in   the    silent 

gloom, 
And  ponders  on  the  world  to  come. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  BLENHEIM. 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done; 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun, 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

That  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there,  had  found ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found. 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and 
round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,  said  he, 
Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

I  find  them  in  the  garden,  for 

There's  many  hereabout, 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 
For  many  thousand  men,  said  he, 
Were  slain  in  the  great  victory. 


Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about, 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries. 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 
And  what  they  killed  each  other  for. 

It  was  the  English,  Kaspar  cried. 
That  put  the  French  to  rout ; 

But  what  they  killed  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out. 

But  everybody  said,  quoth  he. 

That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then. 
Yon  little  stream  hard  by. 

They    burnt    his    dwelling    to    the 
ground, 
And  he  was  forced  to  fly; 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled. 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

With  fire    and  sword    the    country 
round 
Was  wasted  far  and  wide. 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-bom  infant,  died  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must 

be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight, 

After  the  field  was  won. 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must 

be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro' 
won. 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene. 
Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing! 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
Nay  —  nay  —  my  little  girl,  quoth  he, 
It  was  a  famous  victory. 

And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 
Who  such  a  fight  did  win. 

But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ? 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,  said  he, 

But  'twas  a  famous  victory. 


SOUTHEY, 


521 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODOIiE. 

'*  How  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore! " 
My  little  boy  asked  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time ; 

And  moreover  he  tasked  me 

To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 

Anon,  at  the  word ; 

There  first  came  one  daughter, 

And  then  came  another, 

To  second  and  third 

The  request  of  their  brother; 

And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 
So  1  told  them  in  rhyme. 

For  of  rhymes  I  had  store ; 

And  'twas  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  I  should  sing; 

Because  I  was  laureate 
To  them  and  the  king. 


From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell ; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains. 
Its  rills  and  its  gills; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  lake. 

And  thence  at  departing, 

Awakening  and  starting. 

It  runs  through  the  reeds. 

And  away  it  proceeds, 

Through  meadow  and  glade. 

In  sun  and  in  shade, ' 
And  through  the  wood-shelter, 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry. 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry, 
Here  it  comes  sparkling. 
And  there  it  lies  darkling; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 
Till,  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent. 
It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent. 


The  cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along, 
Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 
Rising  and  leaping, 
Sinking  and  creeping, 
Swelling  and  sweeping, 
Showering  and  springing. 
Flying  and  flinging. 
Writhing  and  ringing. 
Eddying  and  whisking, 
Spouting  and  frisking. 
Turning  and  twisting. 
Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound : 
Smiting  and  fighting 
A  sight  to  delight  in ; 
Confounding,  astounding. 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with 
its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting, 
Receding  and  speeding. 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing. 
And  dripping  and  skipping. 
And  hitting  and  splitting, 
And  shining  and  tw  ining. 
And  rattling  and  battling, 
And  shaking  and  quaking, 
And  pouring  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving. 
And  tossing  and  crossing, 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning, 
And  foaming  and  roaming, 
And  dinning  and  spinning. 
And  dropping  and  hopping. 
And  working  and  jerking, 
And  guggling  and  struggling, 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning; 
And  glittering  and  frittering, 
And  gathering  and  feathering, 
And  whitening  and  brightening, 
And  quivering  and  shivering. 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 
And  thundering  and  floundering; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding. 
And    falling    and    brawling    and 
sprawling, 


522 


SOUTHEY. 


And  driving  and  riving  and  striv- 
ing, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and 
wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and 
rounding, 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and 
doubling, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and 
tumbling, 

And  clattering  and  battering  and 
shattering; 


Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting 
and  sheeting, 

Delaying  and  straying  and  playing 
and  spraying, 

Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing 
and  dancing. 

Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and 
boiling, 

And  gleaming  and  streaming  and 
steaming  and  beaming, 

And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brush- 
ing and  gushing, 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clap- 
ping, and  slapping. 

And  curling  and  whirling  and  purl- 
ing and  twirHng, 

And  thumping  and  plumping  and 
bumping  and  jumping. 

And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splash- 
ing and  clashing; 

And  so  never  ending,  but  always  de- 
scending, 

Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever 
are  blending 

All  at  once,  and  all  o'er,  with  a 
mighty  uproar,  — 

And  this  way,  the  water  comes  down' 
at  Lodore. 


THE  EBB-TIDE. 

Slowly  thy  flowing  tide 
Came  in,   old    Avon!    scarcely    did 

mine  eyes, 
As  watchfully  I  roamed  thy  gi-een- 
wood  side. 
Behold  the  gentle  rise. 


With  many  a  stroke  and  strong, 
The  laboring  boatmen  upward  plied 

their  oars, 
And  yet  the  eye  beheld  them  labor- 
ing long 
Between  thy  winding  shores. 

Now  dowTi  thine  ebbing  tide 
The    unlabored    boat    falls    rapidly 

along, 
The  solitary  helmsman  sits  to  guide, 

And  sings  an  idle  song. 

Now  o'er  the  rocks,  that  lay 
So  silent  late,  the  shallow  current 

roars ; 
Fast  flow  thy  waters  on  their  sea- 
ward way 
Through  wider-spreading  shores. 

Avon !  I  gaze  and  know ! 
The  wisdom  emblemed  in  thy  vary- 
ing way, 
It  speaks  of  human  joys  that  rise  so 
slow, 
So  rapidly  decay. 

Kingdoms  that  long  have  stood. 
And  slow  to  strength  and  power  at- 
tained at  last, 
Thus  from  the  summit  of  high  for- 
tune's flood 
Ebb  to  their  ruin  fast. 

So  tardily  appears 
The  course  of  time  to  manhood's  en- 
vied stage, 
Alas!    how   hurryingly   the   ebbing 
years 
Then  hasten  to  old  age  I 


TO  THE  FIRE. 

My  friendly  fire,  thou  blazest  clear 
and  bright. 
Nor  smoke  nor  ashes  soil  thy  grate- 
ful flame; 
Thy  temperate  splendor  cheers  the 
gloom  of  night, 
Thy     genial     heat     enlivens    the 
chilled  frame. 


SOUTHWELL, 


623 


I  love  to  muse  me  o'er  the  evening 
hearth, 
I   love    to  pause    in  meditation's 
sway ; 

And  whilst  each  object  gives  reflec- 
tion birth, 
Mark  thy  brisk  rise,  and  see  thy 
slow  decay ; 

And  I  would  wish,  like  thee,  to  shine 
serene, 


Like  thee,  within  mine  influence, 

all  to  cheer; 
And  wish  at  last    in  life's  declining 

scene, 
As  I  had  beamed  as  bright,  to  fade 

as  clear: 
So  might  my  children  ponder  o'er  my 

shrine, 
And  o'er  my  ashes  muse,  as  I  will 

muse  o'er  thine. 


Robert  Southwell. 


CONTENT  AND  RICH. 

My  conscience  is  my  crown ; 

Contented  thoughts,  my  rest ; 
My  heart  is  happy  in  itself, 

My  bliss  is  in  my  breast. 

Enough  I  reckon  wealth; 

That  mean,  the  surest  lot, 
That  lies  too  high  for  base  contempt. 

Too  low  for  envy's  shot. 


My  wishes  are  but  few; 

All  easy  to  fulfil: 
I  make  the  limits  of  my  power 

The  bounds  unto  my  will. 

I  fear  no  care  for  gold, 

Well-doing  is  my  wealth ; 
My  mind  to  me  an  empire  is, 

While  grace  affordeth  health. 

I  clip  high-climbing  thoughts, 
The  wings  of  swelling  pride; 

Their  fall  is  worst  that  from  the  height 
Of  greatest  honor  slide. 

Since  sails  of  largest  size 
The  storm  doth  soonest  tear, 

I  bear  so  low  and  small  a  sail 
As  freeth  me  from  fear. 

I  wrestle  not  with  rage 
While  fury's  flame  doth  bum; 


It  is  in  vain  to  stop  the  stream 
Until  the  tide  doth  turn. 

But  when  the  flame  is  out, 
And  ebbing  wrath  doth  end, 

I  turn  a  late  enraged  foe 
Into  a  quiet  friend. 

And,  taught  with  often  proof, 

A  tempered  calm  I  find 
To  be  most  solace  to  itself. 

Best  cure  for  angry  mind. 

Spare  diet  is  my  fare. 

My  clothes  more  fit  than  fine; 
I  know  I  feed  and  clothe  a  foe. 

That  pampered  would  repine. 

I  envy  not  their  hap 
Whom  favor  doth  advance ; 

I  take  no  pleasure  in  their  pain 
That  have  less  happy  chance. 

To  rise  by  others'  fall 

I  deem  a  losing  gain ; 
All  states  with  others'  ruin  built 

To  ruin  run  amain. 

No  change  of  Fortune's  calm 
Can  cast  my  comforts  down : 

When  Fortune  smiles,  I  smile  to  think 
How  quickly  she  will  frown. 

And  when,  in  froward  raood,^ 

She  proved  an  angry  foe, 
Small  gain,  I  foimd,  to  let  her  come— 

Less  loss  to  let  her  go. 


524 


SPENCEE  —  SPENSEB. 


Robert  William  Spencer. 


THE  SPEED   OF  HAPPY   HO  UBS. 

Too  late  I  stayed— forgive  the  crime — 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours : 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  flowers ! 

And  who,  with  clear  account,  remarks 
The  ebbings  of  his  glass, 


When   all    its    sands    are   diamond 
sparks, 
That  dazzle  as  they  pass  ? 

Ah !  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  swiftness  brings, 

When  birds  of  paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  to  his  wings  ? 


Edmund  Spenser. 


[From  The  EpitJmlamium,] 

THE  BRIDE  BEAUTIFUL,  BODY 
AND  SOUL. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to 

come: 
Let  all    the  virgins    therefore    well 

await ; 
And  ye,  fresh  boys,  that  tend  upon 

her  groom. 
Prepare  yourselves,  for  he  is  coming 

straight. 
Set  all  your  things  in  seemly  good 

array. 
Fit  for  so  joyful  day: 
The  joyfull'st  day  that  ever  sun  did 

see. 
Fair  sun!   show  forth  thy  favorable 

ray. 
And  let  thy  lif ef ul  heat  not  fervent  be. 
For  fear  of  burning  her  sunshiny  face. 
Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 
O  fairest  Phoebus !  father  of  the  Muse ! 
If  ever  I  did  honor  thee  aright, 
Or  sing  the  thing  that  might   thy 

mind  delight, 
Do  not  thy  servant's   simple  boon 

refuse. 
But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day  be 

mine; 
Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 
Then  I  thy  sovereign  praises  loud  will 

sing, 
That  all  the  woods  shall  answer,  and 

their  echo  ring. 


Lo!    where    she   comes   along  with 

portly  pace, 
Like  Phoebe,  from  her  chamber  of 

the  east. 
Arising  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 
Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin 

best. 
So  well  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  would 

ween 
Some  angel  she  had  been. 
Her    long    loose  yellow  locks;    like 

golden  wire 
Sprinkled   with  pearl,   and  pearling 

flowers  atween. 
Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire ; 
And  being  crowned  with  a  garland 

green. 
Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 
Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 
So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare, 
Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are ; 
Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too 

bold, 
But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so 

loud. 
So  far  from  being  proud. 
ISTathless  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises 

sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and 

your  echo  ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants'  daughters,  did 

ye  see 
So  fair  a  creature  in  your  town  be^ 

fore? 


SPENSER. 


525 


So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as 

she, 
Adorned    with    beauty's    grace   and 

virtue's  store; 
Her  goodly  eyes  like  sapphires  shin- 
ing bright. 
Her  forehead  ivory  white, 
Her  cheeks  like  apples  which  the  sun 

hath  ruddied, 
Her  lips  like  cherries  charming  men 

to  bite, 
Her  breast  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream 

uncrudded. 
Why  stand  ye  still,   ye    virgins    in 

amaze, 
Upon  her  so  to  gaze. 
Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to 

sing 
To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and 

your  echo  ring ! 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can 

see. 
The    inward    beauty    of    her    lively 

sprite, 
Garnished  with  heaven  by  gifts  of 

high  degree, 
Much  more  then  would  ye  wonder  at 

that  sight. 
And  stand  astonished  like  to  those 

which  read 
Medusa's  mazeful  head. 
There  dwells  sweet  Love,  and  con- 
stant Chastity, 
Unspotted  Faith,  and  comely  Wom- 
anhood, 
Regard  of  Honor,  and  mild  Modesty ; 
There  Virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  royal 

throne, 
And  giveth  laws  alone, 
The  which  the  base  affections  do  obey. 
And    yield  their    services   unto  her 

will: 
Ne  thought  of  things  uncomely  ever 

may 
Thereto  approach  to  tempt  her  mind 

to  ill. 
Had  ye  once  seen  these  her  celestial 

treasures, 
And  unrevealed  pleasures. 
Then  would  ye  wonder  and  her  praises 

sing, 
That  all  the  woods  would  answer,  and 

your  echo  ring. 


[From  The  Faerie  Queene.] 
THE   CAPTIVE  SOUL. 

WnAT  war  so  cruel,  or  what  siege  so 
sore, 

As  that  which  strong  affections  do 
apply 

Against  the  fort  of  Reason  evermore, 

To  bring  the  soul  into  captivity  ? 

Their  force  is  fiercer  through  infir- 
mity 

Of  the  frail  flesh,  relenting  to  their 
rage; 

And  exercise  most  bitter  tyranny 

Upon  the  parts  brought  into  their 
bondage ; 

No  wretchedness  is  like  to  sinful  vil- 
lainage. 


[From  The  Faerie  Queene."] 
AVARICE. 

And  greedy  Avarice  by  him  did  ride. 
Upon  a  camel  laden  all  with  gold; 
Two  iron  coffers  hung  on  either  side, 
With   precious    metal   full   as  they 

might  hold ; 
And  in  his  lap  a  heap  of  coin  he  told; 
For  of  his  wicked  pelf  his  God  he 

made, 
And  unto  hell  himself  for  money  sold ; 
Accursed  usury  was  all  his  trade ; 
And  right  and  wrong  alike  in  equal 

balance  weighed. 

His  life  was  nigh  unto  death's  door 

yplaced, 
And    threadbare    coat    and  cobbled 

shoes  he  ware ; 
Ne  scarce  good  morsel  all  his  life  did 

taste ; 
But  both  from  back  and  belly  still 

did  spare. 
To  fill  his  bags,   and  riches  to  com- 
pare ; 
Yet  child  nor  kinsman  living  had  he 

none 
To  leave  them  to;  but  thorough  daily 

care 
To  get,  and  nightly  fear  to  lose,  his 

own, 
He  led  a  wretched  life  unto  himself 

unknown. 


626 


SPENSEJR. 


Most  wretched  wight,  whom  nothing 
might  suffice, 

Whose  greedy  lust  did  lack  in  great- 
est store, 

Whose  need  had  end,  but  no  end 
covetize, 

Whose  wealth  was  want,  whose 
plenty  made  him  poor, 

Who  had  enough,  yet  wished  ever- 
more ; 

A  vile  disease;  and  eke  in  foot  and 
hand 

A  grievous  gout  tormented  him  full 
sore. 

That  well  lie  could  not  touch,  nor  go, 
nor  stand. 

Such  one  was  Avarice,  the  fourth  of 
this  fair  band. 


[From  Tlie  Faerie  Qtieene.] 
UNA  AND   THE  LION. 

Nought  is  there  under  heaven's  wide 
hollowness 

That  moves  more  dear  compassion 
of  mind 

Than  beauty  brought  t'  unworthy 
wretchedness 

Through  envy's  snares,  or  fortune's 
freaks  unkind. 

I,  whether  lately  through  her  bright- 
ness blind, 

Or  through  allegiance  and  fast  fealty. 

Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  woman- 
kind, 

Feel  my  heart  pierced  with  so  great 
agony. 

When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pity  I 
could  die. 

And  now  it  is  impassioned  so  deep. 

For  fairest  Una's  sake,  of  whom  I 
sing,  . 

That  my  frail  eyes  these  lines  with 
tears  do  steep. 

To  think  how  she  through  guileful 
handling. 

Though  true  as  touch,  though  daugh- 
ter of  a  king. 

Though  fair  as  ever  living  wight  was 
fair, 


Though  nor  in  word  nor  deed  ill- 
meriting, 

Is  from  her  knight  divorced  in  de- 
spair, 

And  her  due  loves  derived  to  that 
vile  witch's  share. 

Yet,  she  most  faithful  lady  all  this 

while, 
Forsaken,  woful,  solitary  maid. 
Far  from  all  people's  preace,  as  in 

exile, 
In  wilderness  and  wasteful    deserts 

strayed. 
To  seek  her  knight;    who,    subtily 

betrayed 
Through  that  late  vision,  which  th' 

Enchanter  wrought, 
Had  her  abandoned.     She  of  nought 

afraid, 
Through  woods  and  wasteness  wide 

him  daily  sought; 
Yet  wished  tidings  none  of  him  unto 

her  brought. 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome 

way. 
From    her   unhasty  beast    she    did 

alight, 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs 

did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's 

sight; 
From  her   fair   head   her  fillet  she 

undight. 
And  laid  her  stole  aside.    Her  an- 
gel's face. 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  sliined 

bright. 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady 

place ; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such 

heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly. 
Hunting  full    greedy    after    salvage 

blood ; 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greed- 
ily. 
To  have  at  once  devomred  her  tender 
corse; 


UNA    AND     THE     LION. 


Page  524. 


SPENSEB, 


627 


But  to  the  prey  whenas  he  drew 
more  nigh, 

His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  re- 
morse, 

And,  witli  the  sight  amazed,  forgot 
his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kissed  her  weary 
feet, 

And  licked  her  lily  hands  with  fawn- 
ing tongue, 

As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did 
weet. 

Oh,  how  can  beauty  master  the  most 
strong, 

And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging 
wrong ! 

Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  sub- 
mission. 

Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had 
marked  long, 

Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compas- 
sion. 

And  drizzling  tears, did  shed  for  pure 
affection. 


[From  The  Faerie  Queene."] 
A  HOSPITAL. 

Eftsoones  unto  an  holy  hospital. 

That  was  foreby  the  way,  she  did 
him  bring; 

In  which  seven  Bead-men,  that  had 
vowed  all 

Their  life  to  service  of  high  heaven's 
king. 

Did  spend  their  days  m  doing  godly 
things: 

Their  gates  to  all  were  open  ever- 
more, 

That  by  the  weary  way  were  travel- 
ling; 

And  one  sat  waiting  ever  them  be- 
fore. 

To  call  in  comers  by,  that  needy  were 
and  poor. 

The  first  of  them,  that  eldest  was  and 
best. 

Of  all  the  liouse  had  charge  and  gov- 
ernment, 


As  guardian  and  steward  of  the 
rest: 

His  office  was  to  give  entertainment 

And  lodging  unto  all  that  came  and 
went ; 

Not  unto  such  as  could  him  feast 
again. 

And  double  quite  for  that  he  on  them 
spent; 

But  such,  as  want  of  harbor  did  con- 
strain : 

Those  for  God's  sake  his  duty  was  to 
entertain. 

The  second  was  as  almoner  of  the 

place : 
His    office  was  the  hungiy   for  to 

feed. 
And  thirsty  give  to  drink;  a  work  of 

grace ; 
He  feared  not  once  himself  to  be  in 

need, 
Ne  cared  to  hoard  for  those  whom 

he  did  breed : 
The  grace  of  God  he  laid  up  still  in 

store, 
Which  as  a  stock  Jie  left  unto  his 

seed; 
He  had  enough ;  what  need  him  care 

for  more  ? 
And  had  he  less,  yet  some  he  would 

give  to  the  poor. 

The  third    had    of   their  wardrobe 

custody, 
In  whicli  were  not  rich  tires,   nor 

garments  gay, 
The  plumes  of  pride  and  wings  of 

vanity, 
But  clothes  meet  to  keep  keen  cold 

away, 
And  naked  nature  seemly  to  array ; 
With  which  bare  wretched  wights  he 

daily  clad. 
The  images  of  God  in  earthly  clay ; 
And  if  that  no  spare  clothes  to  give 

he  had. 
His  own  coat  he  would  cut,  and  it 

distribute  glad. 

The  fourth  appointed  by  his  office 
was 

Poor  prisoners  to  relieve  with  gra- 
cious aid. 


528 


SPENSER, 


And  captives  to  redeem  with  price  of 

brass 
From    Turks    and  Saracens,   which 

them  had  stayed ; 
And  though  they  faulty  were,   yet 

well  he  weighed, 
That  God  to  us  forglveth  every  hour 
Much  more  than  that,  why  they  in 

bands  were  laid ; 
And  he,   that    harrowed    hell  with 

heavy  store, 
The  faulty  souls  from  thence  brought 

to  his  heavenly  bower. 

The  fifth  had  charge  sick  persons  to 

attend. 
And  comfort  those  in  point  of  death 

which  lay ; 
For  them  most  needeth  comfort  in 

the  end, 
AVhen  sin,  and  hell,  and  death,  do 

most  dismay 
The     feeble    soul    departing    hence 

away. 
All  is  but  lost,  that  living  we  bestow. 
If  not  well  ended  at  our  dying  day. 
O  man,  have  mind  of  that  last  bitter 

throe ; 
For  as  the  tree  does  fall,  so  lies  it 

ever  low. 


[From  The  Faerie  Queene.] 
VICTORY  FROM  GOD. 

What  man  is  he  that  boasts  of  fleshly 

might 
And  vain  assurance  of  mortality? 
Which,  all  so  soon  as  it  doth  come  to 

fight 
Against  spiritual  foes,  yields  by  and 

by, 
Or  from  the  field  most  cowardly  doth 

Ne  let  the  man  ascribe  it  to  his  skill, 


That  thorough  grace  hath  gained  vio. 

tory. 
If  any  strength  we  have,  it  is  to  ill ; 
But  all  the  good  is  God's,  both  power 

and  eke  will. 


[From  The  Faerie  Queene. 1 

ANGELIC   CARE. 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?  and  is 
there  love 

In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  crea- 
tures base. 

That  may  compassion  of  their  evils 
move  ? 

There  is :  — else  much  more  wretch- 
ed were  the  case 

Of  men  than  beasts.   But  oh !  th' ex- 
ceeding grace 

Of  Highest  God  that  loves  his  crea- 
tures so. 

And  all  his  works  with  mercy  doth 
embrace, 

That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and 
fro, 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his 
wicked  foe! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers 
leave 

To  come  to  succor  us  that  succor 
want ! 

How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pin- 
ions cleave 

The  flitting  skies,  like  flying  pur- 
suivant, [tant! 

Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  mili- 

They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and 
duly  ward, 

And  tlieir  bright  squadrons  round 
about  us  plant ; 

And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for 
reward ; 
Oh,  why  should  Heavenly  God  to  men 
have  such  regard ! 


SPOFFORD. 


529 


Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 

HEREAFTER. 

Love,  when  all  these  years  are  silent,  vanished  quite  and  laid  to  rest, 
When  you  and  1  are  sleeping,  folded  breathless  breast  to  breast, 

When  no  morrow  is  before  us,  and  the  long  grass  tosses  o'er  us, 
And  our  grave  remains  forgotten,  or  by  alien  footsteps  pressed,  — 

Still  that  love  of  ours  will  linger,  that  great  love  enrich  the  earth, 
Sunshine  in  the  heavenly  azure,  breezes  blowing  joyous  mirth; 

Fragrance  fanning  off  from  flowers,  melody  of  summer  showers, 
Sparkle  of  the  spicy  wood-fires  round  the  happy  autumn  hearth. 

That's  om-  love.     But  you  and  I,  dear,  —  shall  we  linger  with  it  yet, 
Mingled  in  one  dewdrop,  tangled  in  one  sunbeam's  golden  net,  — 
On  the  violet's  purple  bosom,  I  the  sheen  but  you  the  blossom, 
Stream  on  sunset  winds,  and  be  the  haze  with  which  some  hill  is  wet  ? 

Oh,  beloved,  —  if  ascending,  —  when  we  have  endowed  the  world 
With  the  best  bloom  of  our  being,  whither  will  our  way  be  whirled ; 

Through  what  vast  and  starry  spaces,  toward  what  awful  holy  places, 
With  a  white  light  on  our  faces,  spirit  over  spirit  furled? 

Only  this  our  yearning  answers,  —  whereso^er  that  way  defile, 
Not  a  film  shall  part  us  through  the  aeons  of  that  mighty  while. 

In  the  fair  eternal  weather,  even  as  phantoms  still  together. 
Floating,  floating,  one  forever,  in  the  light  of  God's  great  smile! 


THE  NUN  AND  HARP. 

What  memory  fired  her  pallid  face, 
AVliat  passion  stirred  her  blood, 

W^hat  tide  of  sorrow  and  desire 
Poured  its  forgotten  flood 

Upon  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat, 

Long  since,  with  thought  that  life 
was  sweet 

When  nights  were  rich  with  vernal 
dusk. 
And  the  rose  burst  its  bud  ? 

Had  not  the  western  glory  then 

Stolen  through  the  latticed  room, 
Her  funeral  raiment  would  have  shed 

A  more  heart-breaking  gloom ; 
Had  not  a  dimpled  convent-maid 
Hung  in  the  doorway,  half  afraid. 
And  left  the  melancholy  place 
Bright  with  her  blush  and  bloom! 


Beside  the  gilded  harp  she  stood. 
And  through  the  singing  strings 

Wound  those  wan  hands  of  folded 
prayer 
In  murnmrous  preludings. 

Then,   like  a  voice,  the  harp  rang 
high 

Its  melody,  as  climb  the  sky. 

Melting  against  the  melting  blue. 
Some  bird's  vibrating  wings. 

Ah,  why,  of  all  the  songs  that  grow 

Forever  tenderer, 
Chose  she  that  passionate  refrain 

Where  lovers  'mid  the  stir 
Of  wassailers  that  round  them  pass 
Hide    their    sweet    secret  ?      Now, 

alas, 
In  her  nun's  habit,  coifed  and  veiled, 

What  meant  that  song  to  her  1 


530 


SPOFFORD. 


Slowly  the  western  ray  forsook 

The  statue  in  its  shrine ; 
A  sense  of  tears  thrilled  all  the  air 

Along  the  purpling  line. 
Earth  seemed  a  place  of  graves  that 

rang 
To  hollow" footsteps,  while  she  sang, 
'^  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine! " 


OUR  NEIGHBOR* 

Old  neighbor,  for  how  many  a  year 
The  same  horizon,  stretching  here. 
Has  held  us  in  its  happy  bound 
From  Rivermouth  to  Ipswich  Sound ! 
How  many  a  wave-washed  day  we've 

seen 
Above  that  low  horizon  lean, 
And  marked  within  the  Merrimack 
The  self-same  sunset  reddening  back. 
Or  in  the  Po wow's  shining  stream, 
That  silent  river  of  a  dream ! 

Where    Craneneck    o'er   the  woody 

gloom 
Lifts  her  steep  mile  of  apple-bloom : 
Where  Salisbury    Sands,   in    yellow 

length 
With    the    great    breaker   measures 

strength ;  • 

Where  Artichoke  in  shadow  slides. 
The  lily  on  her  painted  tides  — 
There's  naught  in  the  enchanted  view 
That  does  not  seem  a  part  of  you; 
Your  legends  hang  on  every  hill. 
Your  songs  have  made  it  dearer  still. 

Yours  is  the  river-road ;  and  yours 
Are  all  the  mighty  meadow  floors 
Where  the  long  Hampton  levels  lie 
Alone  between  the  sea  and  sky. 
Fresher  in  Follymill  shall  blow 
The  Mayflowers,  that  you  loved  them 

so; 
Prouder  Deer  Island's  ancient  pines 
Toss  to  their  measure  in  your  lines ; 
And  purpler  gleam  old  Appledore, 
Because  your  foot  has  trod  her  shore. 

Still  shall  the  great  Cape  wade  to 

meet 
The  storms  that  fawn  about  her  feet, 


The  summer  evening  linger  late 
In  many-rivered  Stackyard  Gate, 
When  we,  when  all  your  people  here, 
Have  fled.     But  like  the  atmosphere, 
You  still  the  region  shall  surround, 
The  spirit  of  the  sacred  ground. 
Though  you  have  risen,  as  mounts 

the  star. 
Into  horizons  vaster  far ! 


PALMISTRY. 

A  LITTLE  hand,  a  fair  soft  hand 
Dimpled  and  sweet  to  kiss : 

No  sculptor  ever  carved  from  stone 
A  lovelier  hand  than  this. 

A  hand  as  idle  and  as  white 

As  lilies  on  their  stems ; 
Dazzling  with  rosy  finger-tips. 

Dazzling  with  crusted  gems. 

Another  hand,  —  a  tired  old  hand, 
Written  with  many  lines ; 

A  faithful,  weary  hand,  whereon 
The  pearl  of  great  price  shines ! 

For  folded,  as  the  winged  fly 

Sleeps  in  the  chrysalis. 
Within  this  little  palm  I  see 

That  lovelier  hand  than  this  I 


*  J.  G.  Whittier. 


FANTASIA. 

We're  all  alone,  we're  all  alone! 
The  moon  and  stars  are  dead  and 

gone: 
The  night's  at  deep,  the  wind  asleep, 
And  thou  and  I  are  all  alone ! 

What  care  have  we  though  life  there 

be? 
Tumult  and  life  are  not  for  me! 
Silence. and  sleep  about  us  creep; 
Tumult  and  life  are  not  for  thee! 

How  late  it  is  since  such  as  this 
Had  topped  the  height  of  breathing 

bliss! 
And  now  we  keep  an  iron  sleep,  — 
In  that  grave  thou,  and  I  in  this  I 


SPOFFORD. 


531 


A  FOUR-O'CLOCK. 

All,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go! 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so ! 
Forever  in  mid-afternoon, 
Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June! 
Pour  out  thy  sunshine  on  the  hill, 
The  piny  wood  with  perfume  fill. 
And  breathe  across  the  singing  sea 
Land-scented  breezes,  that  shall  be 
Sweet  as  the  gardens  that  they  pass. 
Where  children  tumble  in  the  grass ! 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go! 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so ! 
And  long  not  for  thy  blushing  rest 
In  the  soft  bosom  of  the  west. 
But  bid  gray  evening  get  her  back 
AVitli  all  the  stars  upon  her  track ! 
Forget  the  dark,  forget  the  dew, 
The  mystery  of  the  midnight  blue. 
And    only    spread    thy  wide  warm 
wings  [flings ! 

While    Summer    her    enchantment 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go ! 

Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so ! 

Forever  let  thy  tender  mist 

Lie  like  dissolving  amethyst 

Deep  in  the  distant  dales,  and  shed 

Thy  mellow  glory  overhead ! 

Yet    wilt    thou    wander,  —  call    the 

thrush. 
And  have  the  wilds  and  waters  hush 
To  hear  his  passion-broken  tune, 
Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June ! 


A  SNOWDRO^. 

OxLY  a  tender  little  thing. 
So  velvet  soft  and  wiiite  it  is ; 

But  March  himself  is  not  so  strong. 
With  all  the  great  gales  that  are  his. 

In  vain  his  whistling  storms  he  calls, 
In  vain  the  cohorts  of  his  power 

Ride    down    the    sky    on     mighty 
blasts  — 
He  cannot  crush  the  little  flower. 

Its  white  spear  parts  the  sod,  the 
snows 
Than  that  white  spear  less  snowy 
are. 


The  rains  roll  off  its  crest  like  spray, 
It  lifts  again  its  spotless  star. 

Blow,  blow,  dark  March!    To  meet 
you  here. 
Thrust  upward    from  the  central 
gloom, 
The  stellar  force  of  the  old  earth 
Pulses  to  life  in  this  slight  bloom. 


MY  OWN  SONG. 

Oh,  glad  am  I  that  I  was  born ! 
For  who  is  sad  when  flaming  mom 
Bursts    forth,   or  when  the  mighty 

night 
Carries    the    soul    from    height    to 

height ! 

To  me,  as  to  the  child  that  sings. 
The  bird  that  claps  his  rain-washed 

wings,  I  flower, 

The  breeze  that  curls  the  sun-tipped 
Comes  some  new  joy  with  each  new 

hour. 

Joy  in  the  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Joy  in  the  fire  upon  the  hearth, 
Joy  in  that  potency  of  love 
In  which  I  live  and  breathe  and  move ! 

Joy  even  in  the  shapeless  thought 
That,  some  day,  when  all  tasks  are 

wrought, 
I  shall  explore  that  vasty  deep 
Beyond  the  frozen  gates  of  sleep. 

For  joy  attunes  all  beating  things, 
With  me  each  rhythmic  atom  sings, 
From  glow  till  gloom,  from  mirk  till 

mom; 
Oh,  glad  am  I  that  I  was  born! 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 

What  love  do  I  bring  you  ?    The 

earth. 
Full  of  love,  were  far  lighter; 
The  great  hollow  sky,  full  of  love, 

Something  slighter. 

Earth  full  and  heaven  full  were  less 

Than  the  full  measure  given ; 
Nay,  say  a  heart  full,  —  the  heart 
Holds  earth  and  heaven ! 


532 


SPRAGUE, 


Charles  Sprague. 


ODE   ON  ART. 

WHEN,f  rom  the  sacred  garden  driven, 
Man  fled  before  bis  Maker's  wrath, 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 
And  crossed  the  wanderer's  sunless 
path, 
'Twas  Art!  sweet  Art!  new  radiance 
broke 
Where  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the 
ground, 
And    thus,  with    seraph   voice    she 
spoke  — 
"  The  Curse  a  blessing    shall  be 
found." 

She  led  him  through  the  trackless 
wild, 
Where    noontide    sunbeam    never 
blazed ; 
The     thistle     shrunk,    the    harvest 
smiled ; 
And  Nature  gladdened  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's    thousand    tribes    of    living 
things, 
At  Art's  command,    to    him    are 
given ; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs, 
And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to 
heaven. 

He  rends  the  oak  —  and  bids  it  ride, 
To  guard  the    shores    its   beauty 
graced ; 
He  smites  the  rock  —  upheaved  in 
pride. 
See  towers  of  strength,  and  domes 
of  taste. 
Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth 
reveal, 
Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave, 
He  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal. 
And    leaps    triumphant    o'er    the 
grave. 

He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the 
deep. 
Admiring  Beauty's  lap  to  fill; 
He    breaks    the    stubborn    marble's 
sleep. 
And  mocks  his  own  Creator's  skill. 


With  thoughts  that  swell  his  glowing 
soul. 
He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page. 
And,  proudly  scorning  Time's  con- 
trol. 
Commerces  with  an  unborn  age. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name. 
And  treads  the  chambers  of  the 
sky; 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the 
flame 
That  quivers  round  the  Throne  on 
high. 
In  war  renowned,  in  peace  sublime. 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace ; 
His  power,  subduing  space  and  time, 
Links  realm  to  realm  and  race  to 
race. 


THE    WINGED    WORSHIPPERS. 

Gay,  guiltless  pair, 
What   seek   ye    from  the  fields  of 
heaven  ? 
Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here. 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to 

w^eep. 
Penance  is  not  for  you. 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you,  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet    Nature's  untaught 
lays; 
Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with 
hands. 


SPRAQUE. 


683 


Or,  if  ye  stay, 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 


Above  the  crowd, 
upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 
I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 


On 


'Twere  Heaven  indeed 

Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to 

soar. 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed. 

And  Nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


THE  FAMILY  MEETING. 

We  are  all  here ! 

Father,  mother. 

Sister,  brother, 
All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filled — we're  all   at 

home ; 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come ; 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we're  found. 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour; 

We're  all  —  all  here. 

We're  not  all  here! 
Some  are  away  —  the  dead  ones  dear. 
Who  thronged  with  us  this  ancient 

hearth. 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stem,  relentless  hand. 
Looked  in  and  thinned  our  little  band ; 
Some  like  a  night-flash  passed  away. 
And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day ; 
The     quiet     graveyard  —  some    lie 

there  — 
And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share  — 

We're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here! 
Even  they  —  the  dead — though  dead, 

so  dear. 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true. 
Brings    back  their   faded  forms  to 


How  life-like,   through  the  mist  of 
years. 

Each  well-remembered  face  appears! 

We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past; 

From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are 
cast; 

We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  be- 
hold. 

They're  round  us  as  they  were  of 
old  — 
We  are.  all  here. 

We  are  all  here! 

Father,  mother. 

Sister,  brother. 
You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead; 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
Oh,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ! 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  bliss. 

We're  all  —  all  here  ! 


TO  MY  CIGAR. 

Yes,  social  friend,  I  love  thee  well, 

In  learned  doctors'  spite ; 
Thy  clouds  all  other  clouds  dispel, 

And  lap  me  in  delight. 

By  thee,  they  cry,  with  phizzes  long, 
My  years  are  sooner  passed ; 

Well,  take  my  answer,  right  or  wrong, 
They're  sweeter  while  they  last. 

And  oft,  mild  friend,  to  me  thou  art, 

A  monitor,  though  still; 
Thou  speak' St  a  lesson  to  my  heart 

Beyond  the  preacher's  skill. 

Thou'rt  like  the  man  of  worth,  who 
gives 

To  goodness  every  day. 
The  odor  of  whose  virtue  lives 

When  he  has  passed  away. 

When,  in  the  lonely  evening  hour. 

Attended  but  by  thee. 
O'er  history's  varied  page  I  pore, 

Man's  fate  in  thine  I  see. 


584 


SFBAQUE. 


Oft  as  thy  snowy  column  grows, 
Then  breaks  and  falls  away, 

I  trace  how  mighty  realms  thus  rose. 
Thus  tumbled  to  decay. 

Awhile  like  thee  the  hero  burns. 
And  smokes  and  fumes  around, 

And  then,  like  thee,  to  ashes  turns. 
And  mingles  with  the  ground. 

Life's  but  a  leaf  adroitly  rolled, 
And  time's  the  wasting  breath. 

That  late  or  early,  we  behold, 
Gives  all  to  dusty  death. 

From  beggar's  frieze  to  monarch's 
robe, 
One  common  doom  is  passed ; 
Sweet  Nature's  works,  the  swelling 
globe. 
Must  all  burn  out  at  last. 

And  what  is  he  who  smokes  thee 
now  ?  — 

A  little  moving  heap, 
That  soon  like  thee  to  fate  must  bow, 

With  thee  in  dust  must  sleep. 

But  though  thy  ashes  downward  go, 
Thy  essence  rolls  on  high ; 

Thus,  when  my  body  must  lie  low. 
My  soul  shall  cleave  the  sky. 


FROM  THE  ''ODE  ON  SHAKESPEARE:' 

Who  now  shall  grace  the  glow- 
ing throne. 
Where,  all  unrivalled,  all  alone, 
Bold  Shakespeare  sat,  and  looked 

creation  through, 
The    minstrel      monarch   of    the 
worlds  he  drew? 

That  throne  is  cold  —  that  lyre  in 
death  unstrung 

On  whose  proud  note  delighted  Won- 
der hung. 

Yet  old  Oblivion,  as  in  wrath  he 
sweeps. 

One  spot  shall  spare — the  grave  where 
Shakespeare  sleeps. 

Rulers  and  ruled  in  common  gloom 
may  lie. 

But  Nature's  laureate  bards  shall 
never  die. 


Art's  chiselled  boast  and  Glory's  trO' 

phied  shore 
Must  live  in  numbers,  or  can  live  no 

more. 
While  sculptured  Jove  some  nameless 

waste  may  claim,  [fame; 
Still  rolls  the  Olympic  car  in  Pindar's 
Troy's  doubtful  walls  in  ashes  passed 

away, 
Yet  frown  on  Greece    in    Homer's 

deathless  lay; 
Rome,  slowly  sinking  in  her  crum- 
bling fanes, 
Stands  all  immortal  in  her  Maro's 

strains ; 
So,  too,  yon  giant  empress  of  the  isles, 
On  whose  broad  sway  the  sun  forever 

smiles. 
To  Time's  unsparing  rage  one  day 

must  bend, 
And  all  her  triumphs  in  her  Shake- 
speare end ! 

O  thou !  to  \\»hose  creative  power 
We  dedicate  the  festal  hour, 
While   Grace    and    Goodness  round 

the  altar  stand. 
Learning's  anointed  train,  and  Beau- 
ty's rose-lipped  band  — 
Realms  yet  miborn,  in  accents  now 

unknown. 
Thy  song  shall  learn,  and  bless  it  for 

their  own.  [roves, 

Deep  in  the  West  as  Independence 
His  banners  planting  round  the  land 

he  loves, 
Wliere  Nature  sleeps  in  Eden's  in- 
fant grace. 
In  Time's  full  hour  shall  spring  a 

glorious  race, 
Thy  name,  thy  verse,  thy  language, 

shall  they  bear, 
And  deck  for  thee  the  vaulted  temple 

there. 
Our  Roman-hearted  fathers  broke 
Thy  parent  empire's  galling  yoke ; 
But  thou,  harmonious  master  of  the 

mind. 
Around  their  sons  a  gentler  chain 

shalt  bind ; 
Once  more  in   thee    shall  Albion's 

sceptre  wave. 
And  what    her  monarch    lost,    her 

monarch-bard  shall  save. 


STEDMAN. 


535 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


THE  TEST, 

Seven  women  loved  him.     When 
the  wrinkled  pall 
En  wrapt  him  from  their  unfulfilled 
desire 

(Death,  pale,  triumphant  rival,  con- 
quering all,) 

They  came,  far  that  last  look,  around 

his  pyre. 
One  strewed  white  roses,  on  whose 

leaves  were  hung 
Her  tears,  like  dew;  and  in  discreet 

attire 

Warbled  her  tuneful  sorrow.    Next 

among 
The    group,    a    fair-haired   virgin 

moved  serenely. 
Whose  saintly  heart  no  vain  repin- 

ings  wrung, 

Reached  the  calm  dust,  and  there, 
composed  and  queenly, 
Gazed,  but  the  missal  trembled  in 
her  hand : 

"That's  with  the  past,"  she  said, 
"  nor  may  I  meanly 

Give  way  to  tears!"  and  passed  into 
the  land. 
The  third  hung  feebly  on  the  por- 
tals moaning,  i 

With   whitened  lips,  and  feet  that 
stood  in  sand, 

So  weak  they  seemed,  —  and  all  her 

passion  owning. 
The     fourth,    a    ripe,     luxurious 

maiden,  came. 
Half  for  such  homage  to  the  dead 

atoning 

By  smiles  on  one  who  fanned  a  later 

flame 
In  her  slight  soul,  her  fickle  steps 

attended. 
The  fifth  and  sixth  were  sisters;  at 

the  same 


Wild  moment  both  above  the  image 

bended, 
And  with  immortal  hatred  each  on 

each. 
Glared,  and  therewith  her  exultation 

blended. 

To  know  the  dead  had  'scaped  the 

other's  reach! 
Meanwhile,  through  all  the  words 

of  anguish  spoken. 
One  lowly  form  had  given  no  sound 

of  speech. 

Through  all  the  signs  of  woe,  no  sign 

nor  token : 
But  when  they  came  to  bear  him 

to  his  rest, 
They  found  her  beauty  paled,  —  her 

heart  was  broken : 

And  in  the  Silent  Land  his  shade 

confest 
That  she,  of  all  the  seven,  loved  him 

best. 


LAURA,  MY  DAItLING. 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  roses  have 

blushed 
At   the    kiss  of   the  dew,  and  our 

chamber  is  hushed ; 
Our  murmuring  babe  to  your  bosom 

has  clung. 
And  hears  in  his  slumber  the  song 

that  you  sung; 
I  watch  you  asleep  with  your  arms 

round  him  thrown. 
Your  links  of  dark  tresses  wound  in 

with  his  own, 
And  the  wife  is  as  dear  as  the  gentle 

young  bride 
Of  the  hour  when  you  first,  darling, 

came  to  my  side. 

Laura,  my  darling,  our  sail  down  the 

stream 
Of  Youth's  summers    and    winters 

has  been  like  a  dream; 


536 


S  TED  MAN. 


Years  have  but  rounded  your  wom- 
anly grace. 

And  added  their  spell  to  the  light  of 
your  face ; 

Your  soul  is  the  same  as  though  part 
were  not  given 

To  the  two,  like  yourself,  sent  to  bless 
me  from  heaven,  — 

Dear  lives,  springing  forth  from  the 
life  of  my  life, 

To  make  you  more  near,  darling, 
mother,  and  wife ! 

Laura,  my  darling,  there's  hazel-eyed 

Fred, 
Asleep  in  his  own  tiny  cot  by  the  bed, 
And  little  King  Arthur,  whose  curls 

have  the  art 
Of  winding  their  tendrils  so  close 

round  my  heart ; 
Yet  fairer  than  either,  and  dearer 

than  both, 
Is  the  true  one  who  gave  me  in  girl- 
hood her  troth : 
For  we,  when  we  mated  for  evil  and 

good, — 
What  were  we,  darling,  but  babes  in 

the  wood  ? 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  years  which 

have  flown 
Brought  few  of  the  prizes  I  pledged 

to  my  own. 
I  said  that  no  sorrow  should  roughen 

her  way, 
Her  life  should  be  cloudless,  a  long 

summer's  day. 
Shadow  and  sunshine,  thistles  and 

flowers, 
Which  of  the  two,  darling,  most  have 

been  ours  ? 
Yet  to-night,  by  the  smile  on  your 

lips,  I  can  see 
You  are  dreaming  of  me,   darling, 

dreaming  of  me. 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  stars  that  we 
knew 

In  our  youth,  are  still  shining  as  ten- 
der and  true; 

The  midnight  is  sounding  its  slum- 
berous bell. 

And  I  come  to  the  one  who  has  loved 
me  so  well, 


Wake,  darling,  wake,  for  my  vigil  is 

done: 
What  shall  dissever  our  lives  which 

are  one  ? 
Say,  while  the  rose  listens  under  her 

breath, 
"  Naught  until  death,  darling,  naught 

until  death!" 


THE    UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY. 

Could  we  but  know 
The  land  that  end%our  dark,  un- 
certain travel. 
Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and 
meadows  low,  — 
Ah,   if    beyond    the  spirit's  inmost 
cavil, 
Aught  of  that  country  could  we 
surely  know. 

Who  would  not  go  ? 

Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined 
chorus, 
Or  catch,   betimes,   with  wakeful 
eyes  and  clear. 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before 
us, — 
With  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see 
.  and  hear, 

Ah,  who  would  fear  ? 

Were  we  quite  sure 
To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left 
us  lonely. 
Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream 
as  pure. 
To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovelit 
only  — 
This  weary  mortal  coil,  were  we 
quite  sure, 

Who  would  endure  ? 


THE   TRYST. 

Sleeping,  I  dreamed  that  thou  wast 

mine. 
In  some  ambrosial  lover's  shrine. 
My  lips  against  thy  lips  were  pressed, 
And  all  our  passion  was  confessed ; 
So  near  and  dear  my  darling  seemed, 
I  knew  not  that  I  only  dreamed. 


STEDMAN. 


537 


Waking  this  mid  and  moonlit  night, 
I  clasp  thee  close  by  lover's  right. 
Thou  fearest  not  my  warm  embrace, 
And  yet,  so  like  the  dream  thy  face 
And  kisses,  I  but  half  partake 
The  joy,  and  know  not  if  I  wake. 


TOO  LATE. 

Crouch  no  more  by  the  ivied  walls, 
Weep  no  longer  over  her  grave, 
Strew  no  flowers  when  evening  fails; 
Idly  you  lost  what  angels  gave ! 

Sunbeams  cover  that  silent  mound 
With  a  warmer  hue  than  your  roses 

red; 
To-morrow's    rain    will    bedew    the 

ground 
With  a  purer  stream  than  the  tears 

you  shed. 

But  neither  the  sweets  of  the  scat- 
tered flowers, 

Nor  the  morning  sunlight's  soft  com- 
mand. 

Nor  all  the  songs  of  the  summer 
showers, 

Can  charm  her  back  from  that  dis- 
tant land. 

Tenderest  vows  are  ever  too  late ! 
She,  who  has  gone,  can  only  know 
The  cruel  sorrow  that  was  her  fate, 
And  the  words  that  were  a  mortal 


Earth  to  earth,  and  a  vain  despair; 
For  the  gentle  spirit  has  flown  away. 
And  you  can  never  her  wrongs  repair. 
Till  ye  meet  again  at  the  Judgment 
Day. 


THE  DOORSTEP. 

The  conference-meeting  through  at 
last. 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 
To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past 
Like    snow-birds    willing    to    be 
mated. 


Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 
By  level  musket-flashes  litten. 

Than  I,  who  stepped  before  them  all 
Who    longed    to   see    me  get  the 
mitten. 

But  no,  she  blushed    and  took  my 
arm! 
We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  high- 
way. 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Farm 
Along  a  kind  of  lovers'  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 
'Twas    nothing    worth  a  song  or 
story; 
Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a 
glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 
The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were 
gleaming  ; 
By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet. 
Her  face  with  youth  and  health 
were  beaming. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff,  — 
O  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould 
it!  — 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff. 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 
'Twas  love  and  fear  and  triumph 
blended. 
At  last  we  reached    the  foot-worn 
stone 
Where  thatdelicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home ; 
Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fin- 
gered. 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 
Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lin- 
gered. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  head, 
And  with  a  "Thank  you,  Ned," 
dissembled. 
But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 
With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trem- 
bled. 


538 


STEDMAN. 


A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 
The     moon      was    slyly    peeping 
through  it, 
Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 

"Come,  now  or  never  I  do  it!  do 
it."' 

My  lips  till  tlien  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 

But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 
Sweet,    rosy,    darling    mouth,  —  I 
kissed  her! 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  love,  yet  still, 

O  listless  woman,  weary  lover! 
To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild 
thrill 
I'd  give  — but  who  can  live  youth 
over? 


'    THE  DISCOVERER. 

I  HAVE  a  little  kinsman 

Whose  earthly  summers  are   but 

three. 
And  yet  a  voyager  is  he 
Greater  than  Drake  or  Frobisher, 
Than  all  their  peers  together ! 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer. 
And,  far  beyond  the  tether 
Of  them  who  seek  the  frozen  Pole, 
Has  sailed  where  the  noiseless  surges 

roll. 
Ay,  he  has  travelled  whither 
A  winged  pilot  steered  his  bark 
Through  the  portals  of  the  dark, 
Past  hoary  Mimir's  well  and  tree, 
Across  the  unknown  sea. 

Suddenly,  in  his  fair  young  hour, 
Came  one  who  bore  a  flower, 
And  laid  it  in  his  dimpled  hand 

With  this  command : 
*'  Henceforth  thou  art  a  rover! 
Thou  must  make  a  voyage  far, 
Sail  beneath  the  evening  star, 
And  a  wondrous  land  discover." 
—  With  his  sweet  smile  innocent 

Our  little  kinsman  went. 

Since  that  time  no  word 

From  the  absent  has  been  heard. 

Who  can  tell 
How  he  fares,  or  answer  well 


What  the  little  one  has  found 
Since  he  left  us,  outward  bound; 
Would  that  he  might  return! 
Then  should  we  learn 
From  the  pricking  of  his  chart 
How  the  skyey  roadways  part. 
Hush!   does  not  the  baby  this  waj 
bring, 
To  lay  beside  this  severed  curl, 

Some  starry  offering 
Of  chrysolite  or  pearl  ? 

Ah,  no!  not  so! 
We  may  follow  on  his  track, 
But  he  comes  not  back, 
And  yet  I  dare  aver 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer 
Of  climes  his  elders  do  not  know, 
He  has  more  learning  than  appears 
On  the  scroll  of  twice  three  thou- 
sand years. 
More  than  in  the  groves  is  taught, 
Or  from  furthest  Indies  brought; 
He  knows,  perchance,  how  spirits 

fare, — 
What  shapes  the  angels  wear, 
What  is  their  guise  and  speech 
In  those  lands  beyond  our  reach — 
And  his  eyes  behold 
Tilings  that  shall  never,  never  be  to 
mortal  hearers  told. 


SEEKING   THE  MAYFLOWER. 

The  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year 
round  — 

'Tis  the  first  robin  of  the  spring! 
The  song  of  the  full  orchard  choir 

Is  not  so  fine  a  thing. 

Glad  sights  are  common:  Nature 
draws  [year. 

Her  random  pictures  through  the 
But  oft  her  music  bids  us  long 

Remember  those  most  dear. 

To  me,  when  in  the  sudden  spring 
I  hear  the  earliest  robin's  lay, 

With  the  first  trill  there  comes  again 
One  picture  of  the  May. 

The  veil  is  parted  wide,  and  lo, 
A    moment,    though    my    eyelids 
close, 


STEDMAK 


539 


Once  more  I  see  that  wooded  hill 
Where  the  arbutus  grows. 

I  see  the  village  dryad  kneel, 
Trailing  her  slender  fingers  through 

The  knotted  tendrils,  as  she  lifts 
Their  pink,  pale  flowers  to  view. 

Once  more  I  dare  to  stoop  beside 
The  dove-eyed  beauty  of  my  choice. 

And  long  to  touch  her  careless  hair, 
And  think  how  dear  her  voice. 

My  eager,  wandering  hands  assist 
With  fragrant  blooms  her  lap  to  fill, 

And  half   by  chance  they  meet  her 
own, 
Half  by  our  young  hearts'  will. 

Till,  at  the  last,  those  blossoms  won, — 
Like  h^r,   so    pure,   so    sweet,  so 
shy,— 

Upon  the  gray  and  lichened  rocks 
Close  at  her  feet  I  lie. 

Fresh  blows  the  breeze  through  hem- 
lock-trees. 
The  fields  are  edged  with  green 
below;  [love 

And  naught  but  youth  and  hope  and 
We  know  or  care  to  know ! 

Hark!  from  the  moss-clung  apple- 
bough,  [broke 

Beyond  the  tumbled  wall,  there 
That  gurgling  music  of  the  May,  — 

'Twas  the  first  robin  spoke! 

I  heard  it,  ay,  and  heard  it  not,  — 
For  little  then  my  glad  heart  wist 

What  toil  and  time  should  come  to 
pass, 
And  what  delight  be  missed ; 

Nor  thought  thereafter,  year  by  year, 
Hearing  that  fresh  yet  olden  song, 

To  yearn  for  unretuming  joys 
That  with  its  joy  belong. 


ALL  m  A  LIFE  TIME. 

Thou  shalt  have  sun    and  shower 

from  heaven  above. 
Thou  £balt  have  flower  and  thorn 

from  earth  below, 


Thine  shall  be  foe  to  hate  and  friend 
to  love. 
Pleasures  that  others  gain,  the  ills 
they  know,  — 

And  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Hast  thou  a  golden    day.   a  starlit 
night. 
Mirth,  and  music,  and  love  without 
alloy  ? 
Leave  no  drop  undrunken    of    thy 
delight: 
Sorrow  and  shadow  follow  on  thy 
joy. 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

What  if  the  battle  end  and  thou  hast 
lost? 
Others  have  lost  the  battles  thou 
hast  won : 
Haste  thee,  bind  thy  wounds,  nor 
count  the  cost ; 
Over    the    field    will  rise  to-mor- 
row's sun. 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Laugh  at   the   braggart    sneer,    the 
open  scorn,  — 
'Ware  of  the  secret  stab,  the  slan- 
derous lie: 
For  seventy  years  of  turmoil  thou 
wast  born. 
Bitter  and  sweet  are  thine  till  these 
go  by. 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Reckon  thy  voyage  well,  and  spread 
the  sail,  — 
Wind  and  calm  and  current  shall 
warp  thy  way ; 
Compass  shall  set    thee    false,    and 
chart  shall  fail ; 
Ever  the  waves  shall  use  thee  for 
their  play. 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Thousands    of    years    agone    were 
chance  and  change. 
Thousands  of  ages  hence  the  same 
shall  be ; 
Naught  of  thy  joy  and  grief  is  new  or 
strange : 
Gather  apace  the  good  that  falls 
to  thee ! 

'Tis  all  in  a  lifetime! 


d40 


STODDARD, 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF   YOUTH. 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain: 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts. 
And  it  never  conies  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better. 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign: 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet. 
And  will  never  come  again. 

^something  beautiful  is  vanished. 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain: 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 
But  it  never  comes  again. 


AN   OLD  SOXG  HE  VERSED. 

*'  There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses." 

So  I  said  wlien  1  was  young. 
If  I  sang  that  song  again, 
'Twould  not  be  with  that  refrain, 
Whicli  but  suits  an  idle  tongue. 

Youth  has  gone,  and  hope  gone  with 
it. 

Gone  the  strong  desire  for  fame. 
Laurels  are  not  for  the  old. 
Take  them,  lads.     Give  Senex  gold. 

What's  an  everlasting  name  ? 

When  ray  life  was  in  its  summer 

One  fair  woman  liked  my  looks: 
Now  that  Time  has  driven  his  plough 
In  deep  furrows  on  my  brow, 
I'm  no  more  in  her  good  books. 

*'  There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses?" 

Grave  beside  the  wintry  sea. 
Where  my  child  is,  and  my  heart, 
For  they  would  not  live  apart. 
What  has  been  your  gain  to  me  ? 

No,  the  words  I  sang  were  idle, 

And  will  ever  so  remain : 
Death,  and  age,  and  vanished  youth, 
All  declare  this  bitter  truth, 

"  There's  a  loss  for  every  gainl" 


AT  LAST. 

When  first  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
wed. 
They  love  their  single  selves  the 
best ; 
A  sword  is  in  tlie  marriage-bed. 
Their  separate    slumbers  are  not 
rest ; 
They  quarrel,  and  make  up  again. 
They  give  and  suffer  worlds  of  pain. 
Both  right  and  wrong. 
They  struggle  long,  [old, 

Till  some  good  day,  when  they  are 
Some  dark  day,  when  the  bells  are 

tolled. 

Death  having  taken  their  best  of  life, 

They  lose  themselves,  and  find  each 

other;  [wife, 

They  know  that  they  are  husband, 

For,    weeping,    they    are    father, 

mother! 


THE    TWO  an  IDES. 

I  SAW  two  maids  at  the  kirk. 
And  both  were  fair  and  sweet: 

One  in  her  wedding-robe, 
And  one  in  her  winding-sheet. 

The  choristers  sang  the  hymn. 
The  sacred  rites  were  read, 

And  one  for  life  to  life. 
And  one  to  death  was  wed. 

They  were  borne  to  their  bridal-  beds, 

In  loveliness  and  bloom ; 
One  in  a  merry  castle, 

And  one  in  a  solemn  tomb. 

One  on  the  morrow  woke 
In  a  world  of  sin  and  pain ; 

But  the  other  was  happier  far, 
And  never  awoke  asain. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN; 

This  man  whose  homely  face  you 

look  upon. 
Was  one  of  nature's  masterful,  great 

men; 


STODDARD. 


641 


Born  with  strong  arms,  that  imfought 

battles  won; 
Direct  of  speech,  and  cunning  with 

the  pen. 
Chosen  for  large  designs,  he  had  the 

art 
Of  winning  with  his  humor,  and  he 

went 
Straight  to  his  mark,  which  was  the 

human  heart; 
Wise,  too,  for  what  he  could  not 

break  he  bent. 
Upon  his  back  a  more  than  Atlas- 
load, 
The  burden  of  the  Commonwealth, 

was  laid; 
He  stooped,  and  rose  up  to  it,  though 

the  road 
Shot    suddenly   downwards,   not   a 

whit  dismayed. 
Hold,  warrioi-s,  coimcillors,  kings! 

All  now  give  place 
To  this    dear   benefactor  of   the 

race. 


HO  WARE  SONGS  BEG OTAND BRED. 

How  are  songs  begot  and  bred  ? 
How  do  golden  measures  flow  ? 
From  the  heart,  or  from  the  head, 
Happy  poet,  let  me  know. 

Tell  me  first  how  folded  flowers 
Bud  and  bloom  in  vernal  bowers; 
How  the  south  wind  shapes  its  tune. 
The  harper,  he,  of  June. 

None  may  answer,  none  may  know. 
Winds  and  flowers  come  and  go. 
And  the  selfsame  canons  bind 
Nature  and  the  poet's  mind. 


RATTLE    THE    WINDOW. 

Rattle  the  window,  winds. 

Rain,  drip  on  the  panes; 
There    are    tears  and  sighs  in  our 
hearts  and  eyes. 

And  a  weary  weight  on  our  brains. 

The  gray  sea  heaves  and  heaves, 
On  the  dreary  flats  of  sand ; 


And  the  blasted  limb  of  the  church- 
yard yew, — 
It  shakes  like  a  ghostly  hand. 

The  dead  are  engulfed  beneath  it, 
Sunk  in  the  grassy  waves : 

But  we  have  more  dead  in  our  hearts 
to-day 
Than  earth  in  all  her  graves ! 


SONGS    UNSUNG. 

Let  no  poet,  great  or  small, 
Say  that  he  will  sing  a  song; 

For  song  cometh,  if  at  all. 
Not  because  we  woo  it  long, 

But  because  it  suits  its  will, 

Tired  at  last  of  being  still. 

Every  song  that  has  been  sung 
Was  before  it  took  a  voice, 

Waiting  since  the  world  was  young 
For  the  poet  of  its  choice. 

Oh,  if  any  waiting  be. 

May  they  come  to-day  to  me ! 

I  am  ready  to  repeat 

Whatsoever  they  impart; 
Sorrows  sent  by  them  are  sweet, 

They  know  how  to  heal  the  heart: 
Ay,  and  in  the  lightest  strain 
Something  serious  doth  remain. 

Wliat  are  my  white  hairs,  forsooth, 
And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow  ? 

I  have  still  the  soul  of  youth. 
Try  me,  merry  Muses,  now. 

I  can  still  with  numbers  fleet 

Fill  the  world  with  dancing  feet. 

No,  I  am  no  longer  young. 
Old  am  I  this  many  a  year; 

But  my  songs  will  yet  be  sung. 
Though  I  shall  not  live  to  hear. 

O  my  son  that  is  to  be, 

Sing  my  songs,  and  think  of  me ! 


WHEN    THE   DRUM    OF   SICKNESS 
BEATS. 

When  the  drum  of  sickness  beats 
The  change  o'  the  watch,  and  we 
are  old. 

Farewell,  youth,  and  all  its  sweets. 
Fires  gone  out  that  leave  us  cold  I 


542 


STODDARD, 


Hairs  are  white  that  once  were  black, 
Each  of  fate  the  message  saith ; 

And  the  bending  of  the  back 
Salutation  is  to  death. 


PAIN  AND  PLEASURE. 

Pain  and  pleasure  both  decay, 
Wealth  and  poverty  depart ; 

Wisdom  makes  a  longer  stay, 

Therefore,  be  thou  wise,  my  heart. 

Land  remains  not,  nor  do  they 
Who  the  lands  to-day  control. 

Kings  and  princes  pass  away, 
Therefore,  be  thou  fixed,  my  soul. 

If  by  hatred,  love,  or  pride 
Thou  art  shaken,  thou  art  wrong ; 

Only  one  thing  will  abide, 
Only  goodness  can  be  strong. 


OUT  OF  THE  DEEPS  OF  HEAVEN 

Out  of  the  deeps  of  heaven 
A  bird  has  flown  to  my  door, 

As  twice  in  the  ripening  summers 
Its  mates  have  flown  before. 

Why  it  has  flown  to  my  dwelling 

Nor  it  nor  I  may  know; 
And  only  the  silent  angels 

Can  tell  when  it  shall  go. 

That  it  will  not  straightway  vanish, 
But  fold  its  wings  with  me. 

And  sing  in  the  greenest  branches 
Till  the  axe  is  laid  to  the  tree, 

Is  the  prayer  of  my  love  and  terror; 

For  my  soul  is  sore  distrest, 
Lest  I  wake  some  dreadful  morning. 

And  find  but  its  empty  nest ! 


WE  SAT  BY  THE   CHEERLESS 
FIRESIDE, 

We  sat  by  the  cheerless  fireside, 
Mother,  and  you,  and  I ; 

All  thinking  of  our  darling. 
And  sad  enough  to  die. 


He  lay  in  his  little  coffin. 
In  the  room  adjoining  ours, 

A  Christmas  wreath  on  his  bosom, 
His  brow  in  a  band  of  flowers. 

''  We  bury  the  boy  to-morrow," 

I  said,  or  seemed  to  say; 
"  Would  I  could  keep  it  from  coming 

By  lengthening  out  to-day ! 

"Why  can't  I  sit  by  the  fireside, 

As  1  am  sitting  now. 
And  feel  my  gray  hairs  thinning. 

And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow  ? 

"  God  keep  him  there  in  his  coffin 
Till  the  years  have  rolled  away ! 

If  he  must  be  buried  to-morrow. 
Oh,  let  me  die  to-day! " 


THE  HEALTH. 


You 


may  drink  to  your  leman  in 
gold. 

In  a  great  golden  goblet  of  wine ; 
She's  as  ripe  as  the  wine,  and  as  bold 
As  the  glare  of  the  gold : 
But  this  little  lady  of  mine, 
1  will  not  profane  her  in  wine. 
I  go  where  the  garden  so  still  is, 
(The  moon  raining  through,) 
To  pluck  the  white  bowls  of 
lilies, 
And  diink  her  in  dew  I 


the 


SILENT  SONGS. 

If  I  could  ever  sing  the  songs 
Within  me  day  and  night, 

The  only  fit  accompaniment 
Would  be  a  lute  of  light. 

A  thousand  dreamy  melodies, 

Begot  with  pleasant  pain. 
Like  incantations  float  around 

The  chambers  of  my  brain. 

But  when  I  strive  1o  utter  one. 

It  mocks  my  feeble  art. 
And  leaves  me  silent,  with  the  thorns 

Of  music  in  my  heart! 


STORY. 


543 


William  Wetmore  Story. 


THE    VIOLET. 

O  FAINT,  delicious,  spring-time  vio- 
let. 
Thine  odor,  like  a  key, 
Tunis  noiselessly  in  memory's  wards 
to  let 
A  thought  of  sorrow  free. 

The  hreath  of  distant  fields  upon  my 
brow 
Blows  through  that  open  door 
The  sound  of  wind-borne  bells,  more 
sweet  and  low. 
And  sadder  than  of  yore. 

It    comes    afar,    from  that  beloved 
place, 
And  that  belov^^l  hour. 
When  life  hung  ripening  in  love's 
golden  grace. 
Like  grapes  above  a  bower. 

A  spring  goes  singing  through  its 
reedy  grass; 
The  lark  sings  o'er  my  head. 
Drowned  in  the  sky. —  Oh,  pass,  ye 
visions,  pass! 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! 

Why  hast  thou  opened  that  forbidden 
door 
From  which  I  ever  flee  ? 
O  vanished  Joy!  O  Love,  that  art  no 
more. 
Let  my  vexed  spirit  be ! 

O  violet !  thy  odor  through  my  brain 
Hath  searched,  and  stung  to  grief 

This  sunny  day,  as  if  a  curse  did 
stain 
Thy  velvet  leaf. 


THE   UNEXPRESSED. 

Strive  not  to  say  the  whole!   the 

poet  in  his  art. 
Must  intimate  the  whole,  and  say  the 

smallest  part. 


The  young  moon's  silver  arc,  her  per- 
fect circle  tells. 

The  limitless,  within  Art's  bounded 
outline  dwells. 

Of  every  noble  work,  the  silent  part 

is  best; 
Of  all  expression,  that  which  cannot 

be  expressed. 

Each  act  contains  the  life,  each  work 

of  art,  the  world, 
And  all  the  planet-laws  are  in  each 

dewdrop  pearled. 


WETMORE  COTTAGE,  NAHANT. 

The  hours  on  the  old  piazza 

That  overhangs  the  sea. 
With  a  tender  and  pensive  music 

At  times  steal  over  me ; 
And  again,  o'er  the  balcony  lean- 
ing. 

We  list  to  the  surf  on  the  beach, 
That  fills  with  its  solemn  warning 

The  intervals  of  speech. 

We  three  sit  at  night  in  the  moon- 
light, 

As  we  sat  in  the  summer  gone, 
And  we  talk  of  art  and  nature 

And  sing  as  we  sit  alone ; 
We  sing  the  old  songs  of  Sorrento, 

Where  oranges  hang  o'er  the  sea, 
And    our    hearts    are    tender    with 
dreaming 

Of  days  that  no  more  shall  be. 

How  gaily  the  hours  went  with  us 

In  those  old  days  that  are  gone ! 
Ah !  would  we  were  all  together. 

Where  now  I  am  standing  pJone. 
Could  life  be  again  so  perfect  ? 

Ah,  never!  these  years  so  drain 
The  heart  of   its  freshness  of   feel- 
ing,— 

But  I  long,  though  the  longing  bo 


644 


STOWE. 


Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 


LIFE'S  MYSTERY. 

Life's  mystery, — deep,   restless  as 
the  ocean, — 
Hath  surged  and  wailed  for  ages  to 
and  fro; 

Earth's  generations  watch  its  cease- 
less motion 
As  in  and  out  its  hollow  moanings 
flow; 

Shivering  and  yearning  by  that  un- 
known sea. 

Let  my  soul  calm  itself,  O  Christ,  in 
thee ! 

Life's  sorrows,  with  inexorable. pow- 
er. 
Sweep  desolation  o'er  this  mortal 
plain ; 

And  human  loves  and  hopes  fly  as 
the  chaff 
Borne  by  the  whirlwind  from  the 
ripened  grain :  — 

Ah,  when  before  that  blast  my  hopes 
all  flee. 

Let  my  soul  calm  itself,  O  Christ,  in 
thee! 

Between  the  mysteries  of  death  and 

life 
Thou  standest,  loving,  guiding, — 

not  explaining; 
AVe  ask,  and  thou  art  silent, — yet  we 

gaze, 
And  our    charmed   hearts    forget 

their  drear  complaining ! 
No  crushing  fate, — no  stony  destiny  I 
Thou  Lamb  that  hast  been  slain,  we 

rest  in  thee! 


The  many  waves    of    thought,   the 
mighty  tides, 
The  ground-swell  that  rolls  up  from 
other  lands. 

From  far-off  worlds,  from  dim  eter- 
nal shores 
Whose  echo  dashes  on  life's  wave- 
worn  strands, — 

This  vague,  dark  tumult  of  the  inner 
sea 


Grows  calm,  grows  bright,  O,  risen 
Lord,  in  thee! 

Thy  pierced  hand  guides  the  myste- 
rious wheels; 
Thy     thorn-crowned     brow    now 
wears  the  crown  of  power ; 

And  when  the  dark  enigma  presseth 
sore 
Thy  patient  voice  saith,  "Watch 
with  me  one  hour! " 

As  sinks  the  moaning  river  in  the 
sea 

In  silver  peace, —  so  sinks  my  soul  in 
Thee! 


THE   OTHER    WORLD. 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud.— 

A  world  we  do  not  see ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek; 

Amid  our  worldly  cares 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love, 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and 
beat. 

Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred. 
And  palpitates  the  veil  between 

With  breathings  almost  heard. 

The     silence,  —  av/ful,    sweet,    and 
calm. 

They  have  no  power  to  break ; 
For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 

To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem, — 

They  seem  to  lull  us  to  our  rest, 
And  melt  into  our  dream. 

And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring, 

'Tis  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be. 


STREET. 


545 


To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 

And  gently  dream  in  loving  arms, 
To  swoon  to  that, —  from  this. 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep. 
Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away. 
All  sorrow  and  all  care. 


Sweet  souls  around  us !  watch  us  still, 

Press  nearer  to  our  side. 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers. 

With  gentle  helpings  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality. 
Our  suffering  life,  the  dream. 


Alfred  Billings  Street. 


{From,  Frontenac] 
QUEBEC  AT  SUXIilSE. 

The  fresh  May  morning's   earliest 

light, 
From  where  the  richest  hues  were 

blended. 
Lit    on    Cape    Diamond's    towering 

height 
Whose     spangled    crystals    glittered 

bright, 
Thence  to  the  castle  roof  descended, 
And  bathed  in  radiance  pure    and 

deep  [steep. 

The    spires    and    dwellings    of    the 
Still  downward  crept  the  strengthen- 
ing rays ; 
The  lofty  crowded  roofs  below 
And  Cataraqui  caught  the  glow, 
Till  tiie  whole  scene  was  in  a  blaze. 
The    scattered    bastions, —  walls    of 

stone 
With    bristling   lines    of    'cannon 

crowned. 
Whose  muzzles  o'er  the  landscape 

frowned 
Blackly    through    their    embrasures 

—  shone. 
Point    Levi's  woods    sent    many    a 

wreath 
Of  mist,  as  though  hearths  smoked 

beneath, 
Whilst  heavy  folds  of  vapor  gray 
Upon  St.  Charles,  still  brooding,  lay; 
The  basin  glowed  in  splendid  dyes 
Glassing  the  glories  of  the  skies. 
And  chequered  tints  of    light    and 

shade 
The  banks  of  Orleans'  Isle  displayed. 


[From  Frontenac."] 
QUEBEC  AT  SUNSET, 

'TwAS  in  June's  bright  and  glowing 

prime 
The  loveliest  of  the  summer  time. 
The  laurels  were  one  splendid  sheet 
Of  crowded  blossom  everywhere ; 
The    locust's    clustered    pearl    was 

sweet,  [ail 

And  the  tall  whitewood  made  the 
Delicious  with  the  fragrance  shed 
From  the  gold    flowers    all  o'er    it 

spread. 

In  the  rich  pomp  of  dying  day 

Quebec,  the  rock-throned  monarch, 
glowed. 
Castle  and  spire  and  dwelling  gray 
The  batteries  rude  that  niched  their 

way 
Along  the  cliff,  beneath  the  play 
Of  the  deep  yellow  light,  were  gay, 
And  the  curved  flood,  below  that  lay. 

In  flashing  glory  flowed ; 
Beyond,  the  sweet  and  mellow  smile 
Beamed  upon  Orleans'  lovely  isle ; 

Until  the  downw  ard  view- 
Was  closed  by  mountain-tops  that, 

reared 
Against  the  burnished  sky,  appeared 

In  misty  dreamy  hue. 

West  of  Quebec's  embankments  rose 
The  forests  in  their  wild  repose. 
Between  the    trunks,    the    radiance 
slim 
Here  came  with  slant  and  quiver- 
ing blaze; 


646 


STREET. 


Whilst  there,  in  leaf- wreathed  arbors 
dim, 
Was  gathering  gray  the  twilight's 
haze. 
Where  cut    the    boughs    the    back- 
ground glow 
That  striped  the  west,  a  glittering 
belt. 
The  leaves  transparent  seemed,   as 
though 
In  the  rich  radiance   they  would 
melt. 

Upon  a  narrow  grassy  glade, 
W^here  thickets  stood    in    grouping 

shade, 
The  light  streaked  down  in  golden 

mist, 
Kindled  the  shrubs,  the  greensward 

kissed, 
Until  the  clover-blossoms  white 
Flashed  out  like  spangles  large  and 

bright. 

This  green  and  sun-streaked  glade 

was  rife 
With  sights  and  sounds  of  forest  life. 
A  robin  in  a  bush  was  singing, 

A  flicker  rattled  on  a  tree ; 
In  liquid  fife-like  tones  round  ringing 

A  thrasher  piped  its  melody ; 
Crouching  and  leaping  with  pointed 
ear 
From  thicket  to  thicket  a  rabbit 
sped. 
And  on  the  short  delicate  grass  a 
deer 
Lashing  the  insects  from  off  him, 
fed. 


[From  Frontenac] 
THE   CANADIAN  SPRING. 

*TwAS  May!  the  spring  with  magic 

bloom 
Leaped    up    from    winter's    frozen 

tomb. 
Day  lit  the  river's  icy  mail; 
The  bland  warm  rain  at  evening 

sank ; 
Ice  fragments  dashed  in  midnight's 

gale; 


The  moose  at    morn    the  ripples 
drank. 
The  yacht,   that  stood  with  naked 
mast 
In  the  locked  shallows  motionless 
When  sunset  fell,   went    curtseying 
past 
As  breathed  the  morning's  light 
caress. 
The  woodman,  in  the  forest  deep. 
At  sunrise  heard  with  gladdening 
thrill, 
Where  yester-eve  was  gloomy  sleep. 

The  brown  rossignol's  carol  shrill; 
Where     yester-eve     the     snowbank 
spread 
The  hemlock's  twisted  roots   be- 
tween, 
He  saw  the  coltsfoot's  golden  head 
Rising  from    mosses    plump    and 
green ; 
Whilst  all  around  were  budding  trees, 
And    mellow    sweetness    tilled    the 

breeze, 
A  few  days  passed  along,  and  brought 
More  changes  as  by  magic  wrought. 
With  plumes  were  tipped  the  beechen 
sprays ; 
The    birch,  long  dangling   tassels 
showed ; 
The  oak  still  bare,  but  in  a  blaze 

Of  gorgeous  red  the  maple  glowed; 
With  clusters  of  the  purest  white 
Cherry  and  shadbush  charmed  the 
sight 
Like  spots  of    snow    the    boughs 
among ; 
And  showers  of  strawberry  blossoms 

made 
Rich  carpets  in  each  field  and  glade 
Where    day  its    kindliest    glances 
flung. 
And  air,  too,  hailed  spring's  joyous 
sway ; 
The  bluebird    warbled    clear    and 
sweet ; 
Then  came  the  wren  with  carols  gay. 
The  customed  roof  and  porch  to 
greet ; 
The  mockbird  showed  its  varied  skill', 
At  evening  moaned   the  whippoor- 

will. 
Type  of   the  spring    from  winter's 
gloom ! 


STREET. 


547 


The  butterfly  new  being  found ; 
Whilst  round  the  pink  may-apple's 
bloom, 
Gave  myriad  drinking  bees  their 
sound. 
Great    fleeting   clouds    the    pigeons 

made ; 
When    near  her  brood    the  hunter 
strayed 
With  trailing  limp  the  partridge 
stirred ; 
Whilst  a    quick,  feathered    spangle 

shot 
Rapid  as  thought  from  spot  to  spot 
Showing  the  fairy  humming-bird. 


[From  Frontenac] 
CAYUGA  LAKE. 

Sweet  sylvan   lake!   in   memory's 

gold 
Is  set  the  time,  when  first  my  eye 
From  thy  green  shore  beheld  thee 

hold 
Thy  mirror  to  the  sunset  sky ! 
Ko  ripple  brushed  its  delicate  air, 
Rich  silken  tints  alone  were  there ; 
The  far  opposing  sh«re  displayed. 
Mingling  its  hues,  a  tender  shade ; 
A  sail  scarce  seeming  to  the  sight 
To    move,   spread    there  its  pinion 

white. 
Like  some  pure  spirit  stealing  on 
Down  from  its  realm,  by  beauty  won. 
Oh,  who  could  view  the  scene  nor 

feel 
Its  gentle  peace  within  him  steal, 
Nor  in  his  inmost  bosom  bless 
Its  pure  and  radiant  loveliness  ? 
Wy  heart  bent  down  its  willing  knee 
Before  the  glorious  Deity  ; 
Beauty  led  up  my  heart  to  Him, 
Beauty,  though  cold,  and  poor,  and 

dim 
Before  His  radiance,  beauty  still 
That  made  my  bosom  deeply  thrill ; 
To  higher  life  my  being  wrought, 
And  purified  my  every  thought. 
Crept  like  soft  music  through  my 

mind. 
Each  feeling  of  my  soul  refined. 
And  lifted  me  that  lovely  even 
One  precious  moment  up  to  heaven. 


Then,  contrast  wild,  I  saw  the  cloud 

The  next  day  rear  its  sable  crest, 
And  heard  with    awe   the  thunder 
loud 
Come  crashing  o'er  thy  blackening 
breast. 
Down  swooped  the  eagle  of  the  blast, 
One  mass  of  foam  was  tossing  high. 
Whilst  the  red  lightnings,  fierce  and 
fast. 
Shot  from  the  wild  and  scowling 
sky, 
And  burst  in  dark  and  mighty  train 
A  tumbling  cataract,  the  rain. 
I  saw  within  the  driving  mist 
Dhn   writhing   stooping  shapes, — 
the  trees 
That  the  last  eve  so  softly  kissed. 

And  birds  so  filled  with  melodies. 
Still  swept    the  wind  with    keener 
shriek, 
The  tossing  waters  higher  rolled. 
Still  fiercer  flashed  the   lightning's 
streak, 
Still  gloomier  frowned  the  tempest's 
fold. 

Ah,  such,  ah,  such  is  life,  I  sighed. 

That  lovely  yester-eve  and  this ! 
Now  it  reflects  the  radiant  pride  • 
Of  youth  and  hope  and  promise! 
bliss, 
Earth's  future  track  an  Eden  seems 
Brighter    than    e'en    our    brightest 

dreams. 
Again,  the  tempest  rushes  o'er, 
Tlie  sky's  blue  smile  is  seen  no  more, 
The  placid  deep  to  foam  is  tossed. 
All  trace  of  beauty,  peace,  is  lost. 
Despair  is  hovering,  dark  and  wild, 
xili!  what  can  save  earth's  stricken 
child  ? 

Sweet  sylvan  lake !  beside  thee  new, 
Villages    point    their     spires     to 
heaven, 

Rich  meadows  wave,  broad    grain- 
fields  bow, 
The  axe  resounds,  the  plough  is 
driven : 

Down  verdant  points  come  herds  to 
drink. 

Flocks  strew,  like  spots  of  snow,  thy 
brink; 


548 


STREET. 


The  frequent  farm-house  meets  the 

sight, 
Mid    falling    harv^ests    scythes    are 

bright, 
The  watch-ck)g's  bark  comes   faint 

from  far, 
Shakes  on  the  ear  the  saw-mill's  jar, 
The  steamer  like  a  darting  bird 

Parts  the  rich  emerald  of  thy  wave. 
And  the   gay  song  and    laugh  are 

heard. 
But  all  is  o'er  the  Indian's  grave. 
Pause,  white  man!  check  thy  onward 

stride ! 
Cease  o'er    the    flood    thy  prow  to 

guide ! 
Until  is  given  one  sigh  sincere 
For  those  who  once  were  monarchs 

here. 
And  prayer  is  made  beseeching  God 
To  spare  us  his  avenging  rod 
For  all  the  wrongs  upon  the  head 
Of  the  poor  helpless  savage  shed ; 
Who,  strong  when  we  were  weak,  did 

not 
Trample  us  down  upon  the  spot, 
But,  weak  when  we  were  strong,  was 

cast 
like  leaves  upon  the  rushing  blast. 

Sweet  sylvan  lake !  one  single  gem 

Is  in  thy  liquid  diadem. 

No  sister  has  this  little  isle 

To  give  its  beauty  smile  for  smile ; 

With  it  to  hear  the  blue-bird  sing ; 

*'Wake,  leaves,  wake,  flowers!  here 

comes  the  spring! " 
With    it    to    weave    for    summer's 

tread 
Mosses  below  and  bowers  o'erhead ; 
With  it  to  flash  to  gorgeous  skies 
The  opal  pomp  of  autumn  skies ; 
And  when  stern  winter's  tempests 

blow 
To  shrink  beneath  his  robes  of  snow. 

Sweet  sylvan  lake !  that  isle  of  thine 
Is  like  one  hope  through  grief  to 

shine : 
Is  like  one  tie  our  life  to  cheer; 
Is  like  one  flower  when  all  is  sere; 
One  ray  amidst  the  tempest's  might; 
One  star  amidst  the  gloom  of  night. 


A  FOREST   WALK, 

A  LOVELY  sky,  a  cloudless  sun, 
A  wind  that  breathes  of  leaves  and 
flowers. 
O'er  hill,  through  dale,  my  steps  have 
run 
To    the     cool    forest's    shadowy 
bowers ; 
One  of  the  paths  all  round  that  wind. 
Traced  by  the  browsing  herds,  I 
choose. 
And  sights  and  sounds  of  human  kind 

In  Nature's  lone  recesses  lose: 
The  beech  displays  its  marbled  bark, 
The  spruce  its  green  tent  stretches 
wide. 
While  scowls  the  hemlock  grim  and 
dark, 
The  maple's  scalloped  dome  beside. 
All  weave  on  high  a  verdant  roof 
That  keeps  the  very  sun  aloof. 
Making  a  twilight  soft  and  green 
Within  the  columned,  vaulted  scene. 

Sweet  forest-odors  have  their  birth 
From  the  clothed  boughs  and  teem- 
ing earth ; 
W^here  pine-c^nes  dropped,  leaves 
piled  ana  dead 
Long    tufts   of  grass,  and    stars    of 

fern. 
With    many    a    wild    flower's   fairy 
inn, 
A  thick,  elastic  carpet  spread : 
Here,  with  its  mossy  pall,  the  trunk, 
Resolving  into  soil,  is  sunk; 
There,  wrenched  but  lately  from  its 
throne 
By  some  fierce  whirlwind  circling 
past. 
Its  huge  roots  massed  with  earth  and 
stone. 
One  of  the  woodland  kings  is  cast. 

Above,  the  forest-tips  are  bright 
With  the  broad  blaze  of  sunny  light; 
But  now  a  fitful  air-gust  parts 

The  screening  branches,  and  a  glow 
Of  dazzling,  startling  radiance  darts 

Down  the  dark  stems,  and  breaks 
below : 
The  mingled  shadows  off  are  rolled. 
The  sylvan  floor  is  bathed  in  gold ; 


STREET. 


549 


Low  sprouts  and  herbs,  before  un- 
seen 
Display  their  shades  of  brown  and 

green : 
Tints  brighten  o'er  the  velvet  moss, 
Gleams  twinkle  on  the  laurel's  gloss; 
The  robin,  brooding  in  her  nest, 
Cliirps  as  the  quick  ray  strikes  her 

breast ; 
And,  as  my  shadow  prints  the  ground, 
I  see  the  rabbit  upward  bound. 
With  pointed  ears  an  instant  look, 
Then  scamper  to  the  darkest  nook. 
Where,  with  crouched  limb  and  star- 
ing eye. 
He  watches  while  I  saunter  by. 

A  narrow  vista,  carpeted 

With  rich  green  grass,   invites  my 

tread : 
Here  showers  the  light  in  golden  dots. 
There  drops  the  shade  in  ebon  spots, 
So  blended  that  the  very  air 
Seems  net-work  as  I  enter  there. 
The    partridge,    whose    deep-rolling 

drum 
Afar  has  sounded  in  my  ear, 
Ceasing  his  beatings  as  I  come. 
Whirs  to  the  sheltering  branches 

near; 
The  little  milk-snake  glides  away. 
The  brindled  marmot  dives  from  day; 
And  now,   between    the  boughs,    a 

space 
Of  the  blue,  laughing  sky,  I  trace: 
On    each  side    shrinks  the  bowery 

shade ; 
Before  me  spreads  an  emerald  glade ; 
The  sunshine  steeps    its  grass  and 

moss; 
That  couch  my  footsteps  as  I  cross; 
Merrily  hums  the  tawny  bee, 
The  glittering  humming-bird  I  see ; 
Floats  the  bright  butterfly  along, 
The  insect  choir  is  loud  in  song; 
A  spot  of  light  and  life,  it  seems,  — 
A  fairy  haunt  for  Fancy's  dreams. 

Here  stretched,  the  pleasant  turf  I 

press 
In  luxury  of  idleness ; 
Sun-streaks,  and  glancing  wings,  and 

sky 
Spotted  with  cloud-shapes  charm  my 

eye; 


While  murmuring  grass  and  waving 

trees  — 
Their    leaf-harps  sounding   to    the 

breeze  — 
And  water-tones  that  tinkle  near, 
Blend  their  sweet  music  to  my  ear; 
And  by  the  changing  shades  alone. 
The  passage  of  the  hours  is  known. 


THE  BLUE-BIRD'S  SONG. 

Hark,  that  sweet  carol !    With  de- 
light 
We  leave  the  stifling  room ; 
The  little  bluebird  meets  our  sight, — 
Spring,  glorious  spring,  has  come ! 
The    south-wind's    balm    is    in   the 
air,  [where 

The    melting    snow-wreaths    every- 

Are  leaping  off  in  showers ; 
And  Nature,  in  her  brightening  looks. 
Tells  that  her   flowers,   and  leaves, 
and  brooks, 
And  birds,  will  soon  be  ours. 


{From  "  The  Nook  in  the  Foi'est.^'] 
A  PICTURE. 

The  branches  arch  and  shape  a  pleas- 
ant bower, 

Breaking  white  cloud,  blue  sky,  and 
sunshine  bright 

Into  pure  ivory  and  sapphire  spots. 

And  flecks  of  gold ;  a  soft,  cool  eme- 
rald tint 

Colors  the  air,  as  though  the  delicate 
leaves 

Emitted  self-born  light.  AMiat  splen- 
did walls. 

And  what  a  gorgeous  roof,  carved  by 
the  hand 

Of  glorious  Nature !  Here  the  spruce 
thrusts  in 

Its  bristling  plume,  tipped  with  its 
pale-green  points; 

The  hemlock  shows  its  borders 
freshly  fringed; 

The  smoothly-scalloped  beech-leaf 
and  the  birch. 

Cut  into  ragged  edges,  interlace: 

While  here  and  there,  through  clefts, 
the  laurel  hangs 

Its  gorgeous  chalices  half -brimmed 
with  dew, 


550 


SUCKLING. 


As  though  to  hoard  it  for  the  haunt- 
ing elves, 

The  moonlight  calls  to  this,  their 
festal  hall.  [the  earth 

A  thick,  rich,  grassy  carpet  clothes 

Sprinkled  with  autumn  leaves.  The 
fern  displays 


Its 


Of 


fluted  wreath,  beaded    beneath 

with  drops 
richest    brown;    the    wild-rose 
spreads  its  breast 
Of  delicate  pink,  and  the  o'erhanging 

lir 
Plas  dropped  its  dark,  long  cone. 


Sir  John  Suckling. 


CONSTANCY. 

Out  upon  it !  I  have  loved 
Three  whole  days  together; 

And  am  like  to  love  thee  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather.  - 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings, 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again, 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me ; 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Except  it  had  been  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she 

And  that  very  face. 
There  had  been  at  least,  ere  this, 

A  dozen  in  her  place ! 


WHY   SO    PALE    AND    WAN,  FOND 
LOVER? 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale  ^ 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move 
her, 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win 
her. 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute  I 


Quit,  quit  for  shame,  this  will  not 
move. 

This  cannot  take  her; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her. 


/    PRITHEE    SEND    ME    BACK    MY 
HEART. 

I  PRITHEE  send  me  back  my  heart, 
Since  I  can  not  have  thine. 

For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  part. 
Why    then    should' st    thou    have 
mine  ? 

Yet  now  I  think  on't,  let  it  lie. 

To  find  it  were  in  vain ; 
For  thou'st  a  thief  in  either  eye 

Would  steal  it  back  again. 

Why  should  two  hearts  in  one  breast 
lie, 

And  yet  not  lodge  together  ? 
O  love !  where  is  thy  sympathy, 

If  thus  our  breasts  thou  sever  ? 

But  love  is  such  a  mystery, 

I  cannot  find  it  out; 
For  when  I  think  I'm  best  resolved, 

I  then  am  in  most  doubt. 

Then   farewell,   care,   and  farewell, 
woe, 

I  will  no  longer  pine; 
For  I'll  believe  I  have  her  heart 

As  much  as  she  has  mine. 


SURREY. 


651 


Earl  of  Surrey  (Henry  Howard). 


THE   MEANS    TO   ATTAIN  HAPPY 
LIFE. 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  life,  be  these,  I  find ; 

The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain ; 
The    fruitful    ground,    the    quiet 
mind : 

The  equal  friend,  no  grudge,  no 
strife ; 

No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance ; 
Without  disease,  the  healthful  life; 

The  household  of  continuance : 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare; 
True  wisdom  joined  with  simple- 
ness; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care. 
Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  op- 
press : 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate ; 
Such  sleeps  as    may  beguile   the 
night. 
Content  thee  with  thine  own  estate; 
Ne  wish  for   death,  ne   fear  his 
might. 


FROM  "NO  AGE  IS  CONTENT." 

I  saw  the  little  boy 

In  thought  —  how  oft  that  he 
Did  wish  of  God  to  'scape  the  rod, 

A  tall  young  man  to  be: 
The  young  man  eke,  that  feels 

His  bones  with  pains  opprest. 
How  he  would  be  a  rich  old  man. 

To  live  and  lie  at  rest. 

The  rich  old  man  that  sees 

His  end  draw  on  so  sore. 
How  he  would  be  a  boy  again, 

To  live  so  much  the  more ; 
Whereat  full  oft  I  smiled. 

To  see  how  all  these  three, 
From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy, 

Would  chop  and  change  degree. 


IN    PRAISE    OF    HIS     LADY-LOVE 
COMPARED  WITH  ALL  OTHERS. 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 
That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags 
in  vain; 
My  lady's  beauty  passeth  more 
The    best    of    yours,   I  dare   well 
say'n. 
Than    doth    the    sun    the    candle 

light. 
Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  troth  as  just 
As  had  Penelope  the  fair; 

For  what  she  saith  ye  may  it  trust, 
As  it  by  writing  sealed  were ; 

And  virtues  hath  she  many  mo' 

Than    I    with    pen    have    skill    to 
show. 

I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would, 

The  whole  effect  of  Nature's  plaint, 

When  she  had  lost  the  perfit  mould, 

The  like  to  whom  she  could  not 

paint : 

With  wringing  hands,  how  she  did 

cry. 
And  what  she  said,  I  know  it,  I. 

I  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind. 

Her  kingdom  only  set  apart, 
There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 
That  could  have  gone  so  near  her 
heart; 
And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain; 
"She    could    not    make    the    like 
again." 

Sith  Nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise 
To    be     the    chief  est    work    she 
wrought ; 
In  faith,  methink!  some  better  ways 
On    your    behalf    might    well    be 
sought, 
Than  to  compare,  as  ye  have  done, 
To  match  the  candle  with  the  sun. 


552  SWINBURNE. 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

IN  MEMORY   OF  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

In  the  garden  of  death,  where  the  singers  whose  names  are  deathless, 

One  with  anotlier  make  music  unheard  of  men, 
Where  the  dead  sweet  roses  fade  not  of  lips  long  breathless, 

And  the  fair  eyes  shine  that  shall  weep  not  or  change  again, 
Who  comes  now  crowned  with  the  blossom  of  snow-white  years  ? 
What  music  is  this  that  the  world  of  the  dead  men  hears  ? 

Beloved  of  men,  whose  words  on  our  lips  were  honey. 
Whose  name  in  our  ears  and  our  fathers'  ears  was  sweet, 

Like  summer  gone  forth  of  the  land  his  songs  made  sunny, 
To  the  beautiful  veiled  bright  world  where  the  glad  ghosts  meet, 

Child,  father,  bridegroom  and  bride,  and  anguish  and  rest, 

No  soul  shall  pass  of  a  singer  than  this  more  blest. 

Blest  for  the  years'  sweet  sake  that  were  filled  and  brightened. 
As  a  forest  with  birds,  with  the  fruit  and  the  flower  of  his  song; 

For  the  souls'  sake  blest  that  heard,  and  their  cares  were  lightened, 
For  the  hearts'  sake  blest  that  have  fostered  his  name  so  long; 

By  the  living  and  dead  lips  blest  that  have  loved  his  name. 

And  clothed  with  their  praise  and  crowned  with  their  love  for  fame. 

Ah,  fair  and  fragrant  his  fame  as  flowers  that  close  not, 
That  shrink  not  by  day  for  heat  or  for  cold  by  night, 

As  a  thought  in  the  heart  shall  increase  when  the  heart's  self  knows  not, 
Shall  endure  in  our  ears  as  a  sound,  in  our  eyes  as  a  light; 

Shall  wax  with  the  years  that  wane  and  the  seasons'  chime. 

As  a  white  rose  thornless  that  grows  in  the  garden  of  time. 

The  same  year  calls,  and  one  goes  hence  with  another, 
And  men  sit  sad  that  were  glad  for  their  sweet  songs'  sake; 

The  same  year  beckons,  and  elder  with  younger  brother 
Takes  mutely  ihe  cup  from  his  hand  that  we  all  shall  take.* 

They  pass  ere  the  leaves  be  past  or  the  snows  be  come ; 

And  the  birds  are  loud,  but  the  lips  that  outsang  them  dumb. 

Time  takes  them  home  that  we  loved,  fair  names  and  famous, 
To  the  soft  long  sleep,  to  the  broad  sweet  bosom  of  death ; 

But  the  flower  of  their  souls  he  shall  take  not  away  to  shame  us, 
Nor  the  lips  lack  song  forever  that  now  lack  breath. 

For  with  us  shall  the  music  and  perfume  that  die  not  dwell. 

Though  the  dead  to  our  dead  bid  welcome,  and  we  farewell. 


FROM  **A    VISION  OF  SPRING  IN  WINTER.'* 

As  sweet  desire  of  day  before  the  day. 
As  dreams  of  love  before  the  true  love  bom. 
From  the  outer  edge  of  winter  overworn 

The  ghost  arisen  of  May  before  the  May 

•  Sydney  Dobell  died  tlie  same  year. 


SWINBURNE.  553 


Takes  through  dim  air  her  uiiawakened  way, 

Tlie  gracious  gliost  of  morning  risen  ere  mom. 
Witli  little  unblown  breasts  and  child-eyed  looks 
Following,  the  very  maid,  the  girl-child  spring, 
Lifts  windward  her  briglit  brows, 
Dips  her  light  feet  in  warm  and  moving  brooks, 
And  kindles  with  her  own  mouth's  coloring 

The  fearful  firstlings  of  the  plumeless  boughs. 

I  seek  thee  sleeping,  and  awhile  I  see, 

Fair  face  that  art  not,  how  thy  maiden  breath 

Shall  put  at  last  the  deadly  days  to  death 
And  fill  the  fields,  and  fire  the  woods  with  thee. 
And  seaward  hollows  where  my  feet  would  be 

When  heaven  shall  hear  the  word  that  April  saith, 
To  change  the  cold  heart  of  the  weary  time, 

To  stir  and  soften  all  the  time  to  tears, 
Tears  joyf uller  than  mirtli ; 
As  even  to  May's  clear  height  the  young  days  climb 

With  feet  not  swifter  than  those  fair  first  years 

Whose  flowers  revive  not  witli  thy  flowers  on  earth. 

I  would  not  bid  thee,  though  I  might,  give  back 

One  good  thing  youth  has  given  and  borne  away ; 

I  crave  not  any  comfort  of  the  day 
That  is  not,  nor  on  time's  retrodden  track 
Would  turn  to  meet  the  white-robed  hours  or  black 

That  long  since  left  me  on  their  mortal  way; 
Nor  light  nor  love  that  has  been,  nor  the  breath 

That  comes  with  morning  from  the  sun  to  be 
And  sets  light  hope  on  fire : 
No  fruit,  no  flower  thought  once  too  fair  for  death, 

No  flower  nor  hour  once  fallen  from  life's  green  tree, 
No  leaf  once  phicked  or  once-fulfilled  desire. 

The  morning  song  beneath  the  stars  that  fled 
With  twilight  through  the  moonless  mountain  air. 
While  youth  with  burning  lips  and  wreatliless  hair 

Sang  toward  the  sun  that  was  to  crown  his  head. 

Rising;  the  hopes  that  triumphed  and  fell  dead, 
The  sweet  swift  eyes  and  songs  of  hours  that  were: 

These  may'st  thou  not  give  back  forever;  these, 
As  at  the  sea's  heart  all  her  wrecks  lie  waste, 
Lie  deeper  than  tht.  sea ; 

But  flowers  thou  may'st,  and  winds,  and  hours  of  ease, 
And  all  its  April  to  the  world  thou  may'st 
Give  back,  and  half  my  April  back  to  me. 


A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN. 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward  and  lee. 

Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 
The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 


554  SWINBURNE. 


A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 

The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless  bed 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the  graves  of  its  roses 
Now  lie  dead. 

The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken, 

To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  sand. 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken, 

Would  a  ghost  not  rise  of  the  strange  guest's  hand  ? 
So  long  have  the  gray  bare  walks  lain  guestless. 

Through  branches  and  briers  if  a  man  make  way, 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 

That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have  rifled 

Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of  time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain. 
The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken, 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  prest  of  the  foot  that  falls  not; 

As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are  dry; 
From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  nightingale  calls  not, 

Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to  reply. 
Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song; 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither, 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  bums  sere  and  the  rain  dishevels 
One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 

Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 
In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was  weeping, 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 

Whose  eyes  went  seaward,  a  hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  handfast  in  heart  as  they  stood,  "  Look  thither," 
Did  he  whisper  ?     "  Look  forth  from  the  flowers  to  the  sea; 

For  the  foam-flowers  endure  when  the  rose-blossoms  wither. 
And  men  that  love  lightly  may  die  —  but  we  ?  " 

And  the  same  wind  sang  and  the  same  waves  whitened, 
And  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were  shed. 

In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that  had  lightened, 
liOve  was  dead. 

Or  they  loved  their  life  through,  and  then  went  whither  ? 

And  were  one  to  the  end  —  but  what  end  who  knows  ? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea,  as  a  rose  must  wither, 

As  the  rose-red  sea-weed  that  mocks  the  rose. 


SWINBURNE. 


555 


Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to  love  them  ? 

What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave  ? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them, 
Or  the  wave. 


All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  lias  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  smnmer  to  be. 
Not  a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons  hereafter 

Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now  or  weep, 
When,  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and  laughter, 
AVe  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  forever; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise  up  never, 

Who  have  left  naught  living  to  ravage  and  rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground  growing, 

While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall  be ; 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea ; 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  crumble, 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink. 

Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides  humble 
The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink, 

Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter, 
Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand  spread, 

As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 
Death  lies  dead. 


A  MATCH. 


If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  or  flowerf  ul  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief : 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 
If  1  were  what  the  words  are 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 


If  you  were  life,  my  darling. 

And  I  your  love  were  death, 
W^e'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weathel 
With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 
If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 

And  I  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons, 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow^ 
And  laughs  of  mai;l  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 
And  I  were  page  to  joy. 


556 


SWINBURNE. 


If  you  were  April's  lady, 

God,  whose  heart  hath  part 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 

In  all  grief  that  is, 

We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours. 

Was  not  man's  the  dart 

.   And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 

That  went  thi'ough  thine  heart, 

Till  day  like  night  were  shady. 

And  the  woimd  not  his  ? 

And  night  were  bright  like  day; 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

Where  the  pale  souls  wail, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

Held  in  bonds  of  death, 

Where  all  spirits  quail. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure. 

Came  thy  Godhead  pale 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 

Still  from  human  breath, — 

We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 

Pluck  out  his  flying-feather. 

Pale  from  life  and  strife. 

And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 

Wan  with  manhood,  came 

And  find  his  mouth  a  rein ; 

Forth  of  mortal  life. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

Pierced  as  with  a  knife. 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 

Scarred  as  with  a  flame. 

Thou,  the  Word  and  Lord 

In  all  time  and  space 

Heard,  beheld,  adored. 

FROM**  CHRISTMAS  ANTI PHONES." 

With  all  ages  poured 

Forth  before  thy  face; 

IN  CHTJRCH. 

Thou  whose  birth  on  earth 

Angels  sang  to  men. 
While  thy  stars  made  mirth. 
Saviour,  at  thy  birth. 
This  day  bom  again ; 

Lord,  what  worth  in  earth 
Brew  thee  down  to  die  ? 
What  therein  was  worth. 
Lord,  thy  death  and  hirth  ? 
What  beneath  thy  sky  ? 

As  this  night  was  bright 

Light,  above  all  love, 

With  thy  cradle-ray. 
Very  Light  of  light. 
Turn  the  wild  world's  night 

To  thy  perfect  day. 

By  thy  love  was  lit, 
And  brought  down  the  dove 
Feathered  from  above 

With  the  wings  of  it. 

Grod,  whose  feet  made  sweet 

From  the  height  of  night, 

Those  Avild  ways  they  trod, 

Was  not  thine  the. star 

From  thy  fragrant  feet 

That  led  forth  with  might 

Staining  field  and  street 

By  no  worldly  light 

With  the  blood  of  God; 

Wise  men  from  afar  ? 

God,  whose  breast  is  rest 

Yet  the  wise  men's  eyes 

In  the  time  of  strife. 

Saw  thee  not  more  'clear 

In  thy  secret  breast 

Than  they  saw  thee  rise 

Sheltering  souls  opprest 

Who  in  shepherd's  guise 

From  the  heat  of  life; 

Drew  as  poor  men  near. 

God,  whose  eyes  are  skies, 

Yet  thy  poor  endure, 

Love-lit  as  with  spheres, 

And  are  with  us  yet; 

By  the  lights  that  rise 

Be  thy  name  a  sure 

To  thy  watching  eyes. 

Refuge  for  thy  poor 

Orbed  lights  of  tears; 

Wiiom  men's  eyes  forget. 

SWINBURNE. 


557 


Thou  whose  ways  we  praise, 
Clear  alike  and  dark, 

Keep  our  works  and  ways 

This  and  all  thy  days 
Safe  inside  thine  ark. 

Who  shall  keep  thy  sheep. 

Lord,  and  lose  not  one  ? 

Who  save  one  shall  keep. 

Lest  the  shepherds  sleep  ? 

Who  beside  the  Son  ? 

From  the  grave-deep  wave, 

From  the  sword  and  flame, 
Thou,  even  Thou,  shalt  save 
Souls  of  king  and  slave 
Only  by  thy  Name. 

Light  not  born  with  mom 

Or  her  fires  above, 
Jesus  virgin-born, 
Held  of  men  in  scorn. 

Turn  their  scorn  to  love. 

Thou  whose  face  gives  grace 

As  the  sun's  doth  heat, 
Let  thy  sunbriglit  face 
Lighten  time  and  space 
Here  beneath  thy  feet. 

Bid  our  peace  increase. 
Thou  that  niadest  morn ; 

Bid  oppressions  cease ; 

Bid  the  night  be  peace ; 
Bid  the  day  be  born. 

OUTSIDE   CHURCH. 

We  whose  days  and  ways 
All  the  night  makes  dark, 

A^Tiat  day  shall  we  praise 

Of  these  weary  days 
That  our  life-drops  mark  ? 

We  whose  mind  is  blind, 

Fed  with  hope  of  nought; 
,  Wastes  of  worn  mankind. 

Without  heart  or  mind. 
Without  meat  or  thought ; 

We  with  strife  of  life 

Worn  till  all  life  cease, 
Want,  a  whetted  knife, 
Sharpening  strife  on  strife. 
How  should  we  love  peace  ? 


Ye  whose  meat  is  sweet 

And  your  wine-cup  red, 
Us  beneath  your  feet 
Hunger  grinds  as  wheat. 
Grinds  to  make  you  bread. 

Ye  whose  night  is  bright 
With  soft  rest  and  heat. 

Clothed  like  day  with  light, 

Us  the  naked  night 
Slays  from  street  to  street. 

Hath  your  God  no  rod. 
That  ye  tread  so  light  ? 

Man  on  us  as  God, 

God  as  man  hath  trod, 
Trod  us  dow  n  with  might. 

We  that  one  by  one 

Bleed  from  cither's  rod, 

What  for  us  hath  done 

Man  beneath  the  sun. 
What  for  us  hath  God  ? 

We  whose  blood  is  food 

Given  your  wealth  to  feed, 
From  the  Christless  rood 
Red  with  no  God's  blood. 
But  with  man's  indeed; 

How  shall  we  that  see 

Night-long  overhead 
Life,  the  tlowerless  tree. 
Nailed  whereon  as  we 

Were  our  fathers  dead, — 

We  whose  ear  can  hear, 
Not  whose  tongue  can  name. 

Famine,  ignorance,  fear, 

Bleeding  tear  by  tear, 
Year  by  year  of  shame, 

Till  the  dry  life  die 

Out  of  bloodless  breast, 
Out  oS  beamless  eye, 
Out  of  mouths  that  cry 
Till  death  feed  with  rest,— 

How  shall  we  as  ye, 
Though  ye  bid  us,  pray  ? 

Though  ye  call,  can  we 

Hear  you  call,  or  see, 
Though  ye  show  us  day  ? 


o58 


SYMONDS. 


We  wliose  name  is  shame, 
We  whose  souls  walk  bare, 

Shall  we  call  the  same 

God  as  ye  by  name, 
Teach  om*  lips  your  prayer  ? 

God,  forgive  and  give. 
For  His  sake  who  died  ? 

Nay,  for  ours  who  live, 

How  shall  we  forgive 
Thee,  then,  on  our  side  ? 

We  whose  right  to  light 

Heaven's  high  noon  denies, 
Whom  the  blind  beams  smite 
That  for  you  shine  bright. 
And  but  burn  our  eyes. 

With  what  dreams  of  beams 

Shall  we  build  up  day. 
At  what  sourceless  streams 
Seek  to  drink  in  dreams 
Ere  they  pass  away  ? 


In  what  street  shall  meet. 
At  what  market-place, 
.  Your  feet  and  our  feet, 

With  one  goal  to  greet. 
Having  run  one  race  ? 

What  one  hope  shall  ope 

For  us  all  as  one. 
One  same  horoscope, 
Where  the  soul  sees  hope 

That  outburns  the  sun  ? 

At  what  shrine  what  wine. 

At  what  board  what  bread, 
Salt  as  blood  or  brine, 
Shall  we  share  in  sign 
How  we  poor  were  fed  ? 

In  what  hour  what  power 
Shall  we  pray  for  morn, 
If  your  perfect  hour, 
When  all  day  bears  flower, 
Not  for  us  is  born '? 


John  Addington  Symonds. 


MENE,  MENE. 

That  precious,  priceless  gift,  a  soul 
Unto  thyself  surrendered  whole. 
Withdrawn  from  all  but  thy  control. 
Thou  hast  foregone. 

The  throne  where  none  might  sit  but 

thou, 
The  crown  of  love  to  bind  thy  brow. 
Glad   homage  paid  with  praise  and 

vow. 

Thou  hast  foregone. 

I  do  not  blame  thee  utterly. 
But  rather  strive  to  pity  thee*. 
Remembering  all  the  empery 

Thou  hast  foregone. 

It  was  thy  folly,  not  thy  crime, 
To  have  contemned  the  call  sublime, 
The  realm  more  firm  than  fate  or 
time 

Thou  hast  foregone. 


BE  ATI  ILLL 

Blest  is  the  man  whose  heart  and 
hands  ai-e  pure ! 

He  hath  no  sickness  that  he  shall  not 
cure. 

No  sorrow  that  he  may  not  well  en- 
dure: 

His  feet  are  steadfast  and  his  hope  is 
sure. 

Oh,  blest  is  he  who  ne'er  hath  sold 

his  soul, 
Whose  will   is  perfect,    and    whose 

word  is  whole. 
Who  hath  not  paid  to  common  sense 

the  toll 
Of    self-disgrace,     nor    owned    the 

world's  control! 

Through  clouds  and  shadows  of  the 

darkest  night 
He  will  not  lose  a  glimmering  of  the 


SYMONBS. 


559 


Nor,    though    the    sun    of    day   be 

shrouded  quite, 
Swerve  from  the  narrow  path  to  left 

or  right. 

ON  THE  HILL-SIDE. 

The  winds  behind  me  in  the  thicket 

sigh. 
The  bees  fly  droning  on  laborious 

wing, 
Pink  cloudlets  scarcely  float  across 

the  sky. 
September  stillness  broods  o'er  every- 
thing. 
Deep  peace  is  in  my  soul :  I  seem  to 

hear 
Catullus  murmuring,   "Let  us    live 

and  love ; 
Suns  rise  and  set,  and  fill  the  rolling 

year 
Which  bears  us  deathward,  therefore 

let  us  love; 
Pour  forth   the  wine  of  kisses,  let 

them  flow, 
And  let  us  drink  our  fill  before  we 

die." 
Hush !  in  the  thicket  still  the  breezes 

blow;  fsky; 

Pink  cloudlets  sail  across  the  azure 

The    bees    wai-p    lazily    on    laden 

wing; 
Beauty    and     stillness    brood    o'er 

everything.. 


THE   WILL. 

Blame  not  the  times  in  which  we 

live, 
Nor  Fortune  frail  and  fugitive ; 
Blame  not  thy  parents,  nor  the  rule 
Of  vice  or  wrong  once  learned  at 

school ; 
But  blame  thyself,  O  man ! 

Although   both    heaven   and    earth 

combined 
To  mould  thy  flesh  and  form  thy 

mind, 
Though  every  thought,  word,  action, 

will. 
Was  framed  by  powers  beyond  thee, 

still 
Thou  art  thyself,  O  man! 


And  self  to  take  or  leave  is  free, 
Feeling  its  oAvn  sufficiency: 
In  spite  of  science,  spite  of  fate. 
The  judge  within  thee,  soon  orlate, 
Will  blame  but  thee,  O  man ! 

Say  not,  "  I  would,  but  could  not  — 
He 

Should  bear  the  blame  who  fash- 
ioned me  — 

Call  you  mere  change  of  motive 
choice  ?"  — 

Scorning  such  pleas,  the  inner  voice 
Cries,  "  Thine  the  deed,  O  man ! " 


FAREWELL. 

Thou  goest:  to  what  distant  place 
Wilt  thou  thy  sunlight  carry  ?  . 

I  stay  with  cold  and  clouded  face: 
How  long  am  I  to  tarry  ? 

Where'er  thou  goest,  morn  will  be: 

Thou  leavest  night  and  gloom  to  me. 

The  night  and  gloom  I  can  but  take: 
I  do  not  grudge  thy  splendor : 

Bid  souls  of  eager  men  awake ; 

Be  kind  and  bright  and  tender. 

Give  day  to  other  worlds ;  for  me 

It  must  suffice  to  dream  of  thee. 


NEW  LIFE,  NEW  LOVE. 

April  is  in; 
New  loves  begin! 
Up,  lovers  all. 
The  cuckoos  call ! 
Winter  is  by, 
Blue  shines  the  sky, 
Primroses  blow 
Where  lay  cold  snow; 
Then  why  should  I 
Sit  still  and  sigh  ? 

Death  took  my  dear : 
Oh,  pain!  Oh,  fear!- 
I  know  not  whither, 
W  hen  flowers  did  wither, 
My  summer  love 
Flew  far  above. 


660 


SYMONBS. 


Now  must  I  find 
One  to  my  mind : 
The  world  is  wide ; 
Spring  fields  are  pied 
With  flowers  for  thee, 
New  love,  and  me! 

April  is  in : 
New  loves  begin  I 
Up,  lovers  all, 
The  cuckoos  call  I 


FROM  FRIEND   TO  FRIEND. 

Dear  friend,  I  know  not  if  such 

days  and  nights 
Of  fervent  comradeship  as  we  have 

spent. 
Or  if  twin  minds  with  equal  ardor 

bent 
To  search  the  world's  unspeakable 

delights. 
Or  if  long  hours  passed  on  Parnas- 
sian heights 
Together  in  rapt  interminglement 
Of  heart  with  heart  on   thought 

sublime  intent. 
Or  if  the  spark  of  heaven-born  fire 

that  lights 
Love  in  both  breasts  from  boyhood, 

thus  have  wrought 
Our  spirits  to  communion;  but  I 

swear 
That  neither  chance    nor   change 

nor  time  nor  aught 
That  makes  the  future  of  our  lives 

less  fair, 
Shall    sunder  us  who  once   have 

breathed  this  air. 
Of    soul-commingling     friendship 

passion-fraught. 


THE  PONTE  DI  PARADISO. 

Of  all  the  mysteries  wherethrough 

we  move, 
This  is  the  most  mysterious  —  that 

a  face. 
Seen  peradventure  in  some  distant 

place, 
Whither  we  can  return  no  more  to 

prove 


The  world-old  sanctities  of  human 
love, 

Shall  haunt  our  waking  thoughts, 
and  gathering  grace 

Incorporate  itself  with  every  phate 

Whereby  the  soul  aspires  to  God 
above. 
Thus  are  we  wedded  through  that 
face  to  her 

Or  him  who  bears  it ;  nay,  one  fleet- 
ing glance. 

Fraught  with  a  tale  too  deep  for 
utterance, 
Even  as  a  pebble  cast  into  the  sea. 

Will  on  the  deep  waves  of  our  spirit 
stir 

Ripples  that  run  through  all  eter- 
nity. 


\_From  The  Alps  and  Italy.'] 
SELF. 

'Tis  self  whereby  we  suffer;  'tis  the 
greed 

To  grasp,  the  hunger  to  assimilate 

All  that  earth  holds  of   fair    and 
delicate, 

The  lust  to  blend  with  beauteous 
lives,  to  feed 
And  take  our  fill  of  loveliness,  which 
breed 

This  anguish  of  the  soul  intempe- 
rate; 

'Tis  self  that  turns  to  pain  and  poi- 
sonous hate 

The  calm  clear  life  of    love  the 
angels  lead. 
O,  that  'twere  possible  this  self  to 
burn 

In  the  pure  flames  of  joy  contem- 
plative ! 


THE  PRAYER   TO  MNEMOSYNE. 

Lady,  when  first  the  message  came 
to  me 
Of  thy  great  hope  and  all  thy  future 

bliss, 
I  had  no  envy  of  that  happiness 
Which  sets  a  limit  to  our  joy  in  thee: 
But  uttering  orisons  to  gods  who  see 
Our  mortal  strife,  and  bidding  them 
to  bless 


SYMONJDS. 


561 


With  increase  of   pure  good  thy 
goodliness, 
I  made  unto  tlie  mild  Mnemosyne 
More  for  myself  than  thee  one  prayer 
— that  when 
Our  paths  are  wholly  severed,  and 
thy  years 
Glide  among  other  cares  and  far-off 
men, 
She  may  watch  over  thee,  as  one 

who  hears 
The  music  of  the  past,  and  in  thine 
ears 
Murmur  "  They  live  and  love  thee 
now  as  then." 


SONNETS  FROM  ''INTELLECTUAL 
ISOLATION." 

Nay,  soul,  though  near  to  dying,  do 

not  this ! 
It  may  be  that  the  world  and  all 

its  ways 
Seem   but   spent  ashes  of  extin- 
guished days 
And  love,  the  phantom  of  imagined 

bliss ; 
Yet  what  is  man  among  the  mysteries 
Whereof    the    young-eyed    angels 

sang  their  praise  ? 
Thou  know' st  not.     Lone  and  wil- 

dered  in  the  maze, 
See  that  life's  crown  thou  dost  not 

idly  miss. 
Is   friendship    fickle?      Hast    thou 

found  her  so  ? 
Is  God  more  near    thee  on  that 

homeless  sea 
Than  by  the  hearths  where  chil- 
dren come  and  go  ? 
Perchance  some  rotten  root  of  sin  in 

thee 
Hath  made  thy  garden  cease  to 

bloom  and  glow : 
Hast  thou  no  need  from  thine  own 

self  to  flee  ? 


It  is  the  centre  of  the  soul  that  ails : 
We  carry  with  us  our  own  heart's 

disease ; 
And    craving  the  impossible,  we 

freeze 


The  lively  rills  of  love  that  never 
fails. 
What  faith,  what  hope  will  lend  the 
spirit  sails 

To  waft  her  with  a  light  spray- 
scattering  breeze  [sies. 

From  this  Calypso  isle  of  phanta- 

Self-sought,    self-gendered,   where 
the  daylight  pales  ? 
Where  wandering  visions  of  foregone 
desires 

Pursue    her  sleepless  on  a  stony 
strand ; 

Instead  of  stars  the  bleak  and  bale- 
ful fires 
Of    vexed    imagination,    quivering 
spires 

That  have  nor  rest  nor  substance, 
light  the  land. 

Paced    by    lean    hungry   men,    a 
ghostly  band ! 

Oh,  that  the  waters  of  oblivion 
Might  purge  the  burdened  soul  of 

her  life's  dross, 
Cleansing  dark  overgrowths  that 

dull  the  gloss 
Wherewith    her    pristine   gold  so 

purely  shone ! 
Oh,  that  some  spell  might  make  us 

dream  undone 
Those  deeds  that  fret  our  pillow, 

when  we  toss 
Racked   by  the  torments  of  that 

living  cross 
Where    memory   frowns,   a    grim 

centurion !  [smart. 

Sleep,  the  kind  soother  of  our  bodily 

Is  bought  and  sold  by  scales-weight ; 

quivering  nerves 
Sink  into  slumber  when  the  hand 

of  art 
Hath  touched  some  hidden  spring  of 

brain  or  heart : 
But  for  the  tainted  will  no  medi- 
cine serves ; 
The  road    from  sin    to    suffering 

never  swerves. 


What  skill  shall  anodyne  the  mind 
diseased  ? 
Did  Rome's  fell    tyrant  cure  his 
secret  sore 


562 


TALFOURD. 


With    those    famed    draughts    of 
cooling  hellebore  ? 
What  opiates  on  the  fiends  of  thought 

have  seized  ? 
This  fever  of  the  spirit  hath  been 
eased 
By  no  grave  simples  culled  on  any 
shore ; 
No    surgeon's    knife,    no    muttered 
charm,  no  lore 
Of  Phoebus  Paian  have  those  pangs 
appeased. 


Herself  must  be  her  savior.     Side  by 
side 

Spring  poisonous  weed  and  hope- 
ful antidote 

Within  her  tangled  herbage ;  lonely 
pride 
And  humble  fellow-service;  dreams 
that  dote 

Deeds  that  aspire;  foul  sloth,  free 
labor:  she 

Hath  power  to  choose,  and  what 
she  wills,  to  be. 


Thomas  Noon  Talfourd. 


{From  Ion.'] 
LITTLE  KINDNESSES. 

The  blessings  which  the  weak  and 

poor  can  scatter 
Have  their  own  season.     'Tis  a  little 

thing 
To    give    a    cup  of    water;    yet  its 

draught 
Of  cool  refreshment,  drained  by  fe- 
vered lips, 
May  give  a  shock  of  pleasure  to  the 

frame 
More  exquisite  than  when  nectarian 

juice 
Renews  the  life  of  joy  in  happiest 

hours. 
It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  phrase 
Of  common  comfort,  which  by  daily 

use 
Has  almost  lost  its  sense ;  yet  in  the 

ear 
Of    him    who    thought    to  die    un- 

mourned,  'twill  fall 
Like  choicest  music,  fill  the  glazing 

eye 
With  gentle  tears ;  relax  the  knotted 

hand 
To    know  the  bonds  of    fellowship 

again, 
And  shed  on  the  departing  soul,  a 

sense 
More  precious  than  the  benison  of 

friends 
About  the  honored  death-bed  of  the 

rich 


To  him  who  else  were  lonely,  that 

another 
Of    the  great   family    is    near,  and 

feels. 


ON   THE  DECEPTION   OF   WORDS- 
WORTH AT  OXFORD. 

Oh!    never  did  a  mighty  truth  pre- 
vail 
With   such    felicities  of    place    and 

time 
As  in  those  shouts  sent  forth  with 

joy  sublime 
Fram  the  full    heart  of    England's 

youth,  to  hail 
Her  once  neglected  bard  within  the 

pale 
Of  Learning's  fairest  citadel!    That 

voice, 
In  which  the  future  thunders,  bids 

rejoice 
Some  who  through  wintry  fortunes 

did  not  fail 
To  bless  with  love  as  deep  as  life, 

the  name 
Thus    welcomed ;  —  who    in    happy 

silence  share 
The    triumph;   while    their  fondest 

musings  claim 
Unhoped-for   echoes   in   the  joyous 

air, 
That  to  their  long-loved  poet's  spirit 

bear. 
A  nation's  promise  of  undying  fame. 


TANNAEILL. 


563 


Robert  Tannahill. 


THE  MIDGES  DANCE   ABOON  THE 
BURN. 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  bum; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa' ; 
The  pairtricks  down  the  rushy  hohn 

Set  up  their  e'ening  ca'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's 
sang 

Rings  through  the  briery  shaw, 
While  flitting  gay,  the  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 


Beneath  the  golden  gloamin'  sky 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay ; 
The  red-breast   pours  his   sweetest 
strains, 

To  charm  the  ling' ring  day; 
While  weary  yeldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn, 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell ; 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry, 
The  simple  joys  that  Xature  yields 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 


THE  FLOWER  O'  DUMBLANE. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the 
lofty  Benlomond, 
And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside 
o'er  the  scene, 
While  lanely  I  stray  in  the  calm  sum- 
mer gloamin', 
To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower 
o'  Dumblane. 


How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi'  its  saft 
fauldin'  blossom. 
And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi'  its  man- 
tle o'  green ; 
Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to 
this  bosom. 
Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower 
o'  Dumblane. 

She's  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as 
she's  bonnie, — 
For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her 
its  ain ; 
And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  of 
feeling, 
Wha'd  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet 
flower  o'  Dumblane. 

Sing  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn 
to  the  e'ening, — 
Thou'rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Cal- 
derwood  glen ; 
Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless 
and  winning, 
Is    charming    young    Jessie,    the 
flower  o'  Dumblane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I  met  wi' 
my  Jessie ! 
The  sports  o'  the  city  seemed  fool- 
ish and  vain ; 
I  ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  would  ca'  my 
dear  lassie 
Till  charmed  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the 
flower  o'  Dumblane. 

Though  mine  were    the  station  o' 
loftiest  grandeur. 
Amidst  its  profusion  I'd  languish 
in  pain, 
And  reckon  as  naething  the  height 
o'  its  splendor, 
If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower 
o'  Dmnblane. 


564 


TAYLOR. 


Bayard  Taylor. 


O2V  THE  HEADLAND. 

I  SIT  on  the  lonely  headland, 
Where  the  sea-gulls  come  and  go : 

The  sky  is  gray  above  me, 
And  the  sea  is  gray  below. 

There  is  no  fisherman's  pinnace 
Homeward  or  outward  bound ; 

I  see  no  living  creature 
In  the  world's  deserted  round. 

I  pine  for  something  human, 
Man,  woman,  young  or  old, — 

Something  to  meet  and  welcome, 
Something  to  clasp  and  hold. 

I  have  a  mouth  for  kisses, 

But  there's  no  one  to  give   and 
take; 
I  have  a  heart  in  my  bosom 

Beating  for  nobody's  sake. 

0  warmth  of  love  that  is  wasted! 
Is  there  none  to  stretch  a  hand  ? 

No  other  heart  that  hungers 
In  all  the  living  land  ? 

1  could  fondle  the  fisherman's  baby. 
And  rock  it  into  rest; 

I  could  take  the  simburnt  sailor, 
Like  a  brother,  to  my  breast, 

I  could  clasp  the  hand  of  any 

Outcast  of  land  or  sea. 
If  the  guilty  palm  but  answered 

The  tenderness  in  me ! 

The  sea  might  rise  and  drown  me ; 

Cliffs  fall  and  crush  my  head, — 
Were  there  one  to  love  me,  living, 

Or  weep  to  see  me  dead ! 


THE  FATHER. 

The  fateful  hour,  when  death  stood 
by 
And  stretched  his  threatening  hand 
in  vain, 
Is  over  now,  and  life's  first  cry 
Speaks  feeble  triumph  through  its 
pain. 


But  yesterday,  and  thee  the  earth 
Inscribed     not     on    her     mighty 
scroll : 
To-day  she  opes  the  gate  of  birth, 
And    gives    the    spheres    another 
soul. 

But  yesterday,  no  fruit  from  me 
The    rising    winds    of    time    had 
hurled 

To-day,  a  father, —  can  it  be 
A  child  of  mine  is  in  the  world  ? 

I  look  upon  the  little  frame. 
As  helpless  on  my  arm  it  lies: 

Thou  giv'st    me,    child,   a    father's 
name, 
God's  earliest  name  in  Paradise. 

Like  Him,  creator  too  I  stand : 
His  power  and  mystery  seem  more 
near ; 

Thou  giv'st  me  honor  in  the  land. 
And  giv'st  my  life  duration  here. 

But  love,  to-day,  is  more  than  pride; 
Love    sees    his    star    of    triumph 
shine. 
For  life  nor  death  can  now  divide 
The  souls  that  wedded  breathe  in 
thine : 

Mine  and  thy  mother's,  whence  arose 
The  copy  of  my  face  in  thee ; 

And  as  thine  eyelids  first  unclose. 
My  own  young  eyes  look  up  to 
me. 

Look  on  me,  child,  once  more,  once 
more. 
Even    with    those    weak,    uncon- 
scious eyes ; 
Stretch  the  small  hands  that  help  im- 
plore ; 
Salute  me  with  thy  wailing  cries! 

This  is  the  blessing  and  the  prayer 
A  father's  sacred  place  demands: 

Ordain  me.  darling,  for  thy  care, 
And  lead    me  with    thy  helpless 
hands ! 


TAYLOR. 


565 


A  FUNERAL    THOUGHT. 

When  the   stern  genius,  to  whose 
hollow  tramp 
Echo  the  startled  chambers  of  the 
soul, 
Waves  his  inverted  torch  o'er  that 
pale  camp 
Where  the  archangel's  final  trum- 
pets roll, 
I  would  not  meet  him  in  the  chamber 
dim, 
Hushed,  and  pervaded  with  a  name- 
less fear, 
When   the   breath  flutters  and  the 
senses  swim. 
And  the  dread  hour  is  near. 

Though  love's  dear  arms  might  clasp 
me  fondly  then 
As  if  to  keep  the  Summoner  at  bay, 
And  woman's  woe  and  the  calm  grief 
of  men 
Hallow  at  last  the  chill,  imbreath- 
ing  clay,— 
These  are  earth's  fetters,  and  the  soul 
would  shrink, 
Thus  bound,  from  darkness  and  the 
dread  unknown, 
Stretching  its  arms  from  death's  eter- 
nal brink, 
Which  it  must  dare  alone. 

But  in  the  awful  silence  of  the  sky. 
Upon  some  mountain  summit,  yet 
untrod. 
Through   the   blue    ether   would    I 
climb,  to  die 
Afar  from  mortals  and  alone  with 
God! 
To  the  pure  keeping  of  the  stainless  air 
Would  I  resign  my  faint  and  flut- 
tering breath. 
And  with  tlie  rapture  of  an  answered 
prayer 
Receive  the  kiss  of  Death. 

Then  to  the  elements  my  frame  would 
turn; 
No  worms  should  riot  on  my  cof- 
fined clay. 
But  the  cold  limbs,  from  that  sepul- 
chral urn. 
In  the  slow  storms  of  ages  waste 
away. 


Loud  winds  and  thunder's  diapason 

high 

Should  be  my  requiem  through  the 

coming  time,  Isky, 

And  the  white  summit,  fading  in  the 

My  monument  sublime. 


PROPOSAL. 

The  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank, 

The  cowslip  loves  the  lea ; 
The  scarlet  creeper  loves  the  elm. 
But  I  love  —  thee. 

The  sunshine  kisses  mount  and  vale, 

The  stars,  they  kiss  the  sea; 
The  west  winds  kiss  the  clover-bloom. 
But  I  kiss  —  thee ! 

The  oriole  weds  his  mottled  mate : 

The  lily's  bride  of  tlie  bee; 
Heaven's  marriage-ring  is  round  the 

Shall  1  wed  thee  ? 


Wi:^D  AND  SEA. 

The  sea  is  a  jovial  comrade. 

He  laughs  wherever  he  goes ; 
His  merriment  shines  in  the  dim- 
pling lines 
That  wrinkle  his  hale  repose; 
He  lays  himself  down  at  the  feet  of 
the  Sun, 
And  shakes  all  over  with  glee, 
And    the   broad-backed  billows  fall 
faint  on  the  shore, 
In  the  mirth  of  the  mighty  Sea ! 

But  the  Wind  is  sad  and  restless. 

And  cursed  with  an  inward  pain ! 
You  may  hark  as  you  will,  by  valley 
or  hill. 
But  you  hear  him  still  complain. 
He  wails  on  the  barren  mountains. 

And  shrieks  on  the  wintry  sea; 
He  sobs  in  the  cedar,  and  moans  in 
the  pine. 
And  shudders  all  over  the  aspen 
tree. 

Welcome  are  both  their  voices, 
And  I  know  not  which  is  best,  — 


566 


TAYLOR. 


The   laughter    that    slips   from  the 
Ocean's  lips, 
Or  the  comfortless  Wind's  mirest. 
There's  a  pang  in  all  rejoicing, 

A  joy  in  the  heart  of  pain, 
And  the  Wind  that  saddens,  the  Sea 
that  gladdens, 
Are  singing  the  self- same  strain! 


IN  THE  MEADOWS. 

I  LIE  in  the  summer  meadows, 

In  the  meadows  all  alone. 
With  the  infinite  sky  above  me. 

And  the  sun  on  his  midday  throne. 

The  smell  of  the  flowering  grasses 

Is  sweeter  than  any  rose, 
And  a  million  happy  insects 

Sing  in  the  warm  repose. 

The  mother  lark  that  is  brooding 
Feels  the  sun  on  her  wings. 

And  the  deeps  of  the  noonday  glitter 
With  swarms  of  faiiy  things. 

From  the  billowy  green  beneath  me 
To  the  fathomless  blue  above, 

The  creatures  of  God  are  happy 
In  the  warmth  of  their  summer 
love. 

The  infinite  bliss  of  Nature 

I  feel  in  every  vein ; 
The  light  and  the  life  of  summer 

Blossom  in  heart  and  brain. 

But  darker  than  any  shadow 
By  thunder-clouds  unfurled. 

The  awful  truth  arises, 
That  Death  is  in  the  world. 

And  the  sky  may  beam  as  ever. 
And  never  a  cloud  be  curled ; 

And  the  airs  be  living  odors. 
But  Death  is  in  the  world ! 

Out  of  the  deeps  of  sunshine 
The  invisible  bolt  is  hurled : 

There's  life  in  the  summer  meadows, 
But  Death  is  in  the  world. 


BEFORE   THE  BRIDAL. 

Now  the  night  is  overpast, 
And  the  mist  is  cleared  away: 

On  my  barren  life  at  last 
Breaks  the  bright,  reluctant  day. 

Day  of  payment  for  the  wrong 
I  was  doomed  so  long  to  bear; 

Day  of  promise,  day  of  song. 
Day  that  makes  the  future  fair! 

Let  me  wake  to  bliss  alone; 

Let  me  bury  every  fear: 
What  I  prayed  for  is  my  own ; 

What  was  distant,  now  is  near. 

For  the  happy  hour  that  waits 
No  reproachful  shade  shall  bring. 

And  I  hear  forgiving  Fates 
In  the  happy  bells  that  ring. 

Leave  the  song  that  now  is  mute, 
For  the  sweeter  song  begun : 

Leave  the  blossom  for  the  fruit. 
And  the  rainbow  for  the  sun ! 


SQUANDERED   LIVES. 

The  fisherman  wades  in  the  surges; 

The  sailor  sails  over  the  sea; 
The  soldier  steps  bravely  to  battle ; 

The  woodman  lays  axe  to  the  tree. 

They  are  each  of  the  breed  of  the 

heroes. 

The  manhood  attempered  in  strife ; 

Strong  hands  that  go  lightly  to  labor. 

True  hearts  that  take  comfort  in 

life. 

In  each  is  the  seed  to  replenish 
The  world  with  the  vigor  it  needs, — 

The  centre  of  honest  affections, 
The  impulse  to  generous  deeds. 

But  the  shark  drinks  the  blood  of  the 
fisher ; 
The  sailor  is  dropped  in  the  sea; 
The  soldier  lies  cold  by  his  cannon; 
The  woodman  is   crushed  by  his 
tree. 


TAYLOR. 


667 


Each  prodigal  life  that  is  wasted 
In  manly  achievement  unseen, 

But  lengthens  the  days  of  the  coward, 
And    strengthens    the  crafty  and 
mean. 

The  blood  of  the  noblest  is  lavished 
That  the  selfish  a  profit  may  find ; 

But  God  sees  the  lives  that  are  squan- 
dered, 
And  we  to  Kis  wisdom  are  blind. 


THE  LOST  MAY, 

When    May,    with   cowslip-braided 
locks, 
Walks  through  the  land  in  green 
attire. 
And  bums  in  meadow-grass  the  phlox 
His  torch  of  purple  fire : 

When   buds   have   burst  the  silver 
sheath. 
And  shifting  pink,  and  gray,  and 
gold 
Steal  o'er  the  woods,  while  fair  be- 
neath 
The  bloomy  vales  unfold : 

When,  emerald-bright,  the  hemlock 
stands 
New-feathered,  needled   new,  the 
pine; 
And,  exiles  from  the  orient  lands. 
The  turbaned  tulips  shine: 

When  wild  azaleas  deck  the  knoll, 
And  cinque-foil  stars  the  -fields  of 
home, 
And  winds,  that  take  the  white-weed, 
roll 
The  meadows  into  foam : 

Then  from  the  jubilee  I  turn 
To  other  Mays  that  I  have  seen. 

Where   more    resplendent  blossoms 
bum. 
And  statelier  woods  are  green ; — 

Mays  when  my  heart  expanded  first, 
A  honeyed  blossom,  fresh  with  dew ; 


And  one  sweet  wind  of  heaven  dis- 
persed 
The  only  clouds  I  knew. 

For  she,  whose  softly  murmured 
name 

The  music  of  the  month  expressed. 
Walked  by  my  side,  in  holy  shame 

Of  girlish  love  confessed, 

The  budding  chestnuts  overhead, 
Their  sprinkled  shadows    in    the 
lane,  — 
Blue    flowers    along   the    brooklet's 
bed, — 
I  see  them  all  again ! 

The  old,  old  tale  of  girl  and  boy, 
Repeated  ever,  never  old : 

To  each  in  turn  the  gates  of  joy, 
The  gates  of  heaven  unfold. 

And  when  the  punctual  May  arrives. 
With  cowslip-garland  on  her  brow, 

We  know  what  once  she  gave  our 
lives, 
And  cannot  give  us  now ! 


THE  MYSTERY. 

Thou  art  not  dead ;  thou  art  not  gone 
to  dust ; 
No  line  of  all  thy  loveliness  shall 
fall 
To  formless  ruin,   smote  by  Time, 
and  thrust 
Into  the  solemn  gulf  that  covers  all. 

Thou  canst  not  wholly  perish,  though 
the  sod 
Sink  with  its  violets  closer  to  thy 
breast ; 
Though  by  the  feet  of  generations 
trod, 
The  headstone  crumble  from  thy 
place  of  rest. 

The  marvel  of  thy  beauty  cannot  die; 
The  sweetness  of  thy  presence  shall 
not  fade; 
Earth  gave  not  all  the  glory  of  thine 
eye,  — 
Death  may  not  keep  what  Death  has 
never  made. 


5G8 


TAYLOR. 


It    was    not    thine,    that    forehead 
strange  and  cold, 
Nor  those  dumb  lips,  they  hid  be- 
neath the  snow ; 
Thy  heart  would  throb  beneath  that 
passive  fold, 
Thy  hands  for  me  that  stony  clasp 
forego. 

But  thou  hadst  gone,  —  gone  from 
the  dreary  land, 
Gone  from  the  storms  let  loose  on 
every  hill, 
Lured  by  the  sweet  persuasion  of  a 
hand 
Which  leads  thee  somewhere  in  the 
distance  still. 

Where'er   thou    art,    I   know  thou 
wearest  yet 
The  same  bewildering  beauty,  sanc- 
tified 
By  calmer  joy,  and  touched  with  soft 
regret 
For  him  who  seeks,  but  cannot 
reach  thy  side. 

I  keep  for  thee  the  living  love  of 
old, 
And  seek  thy  place  in  Nature,  as  a 
child 
Whose  hand  is  parted  from  his  play- 
mate's hold, 
Wanders  and  cries  along  a  lone- 
some wild. 

When,  in  the  watches  of  my  heart,  I 
hear 
The  messages  of  purer  life,  and 
know 
The  footsteps  of  thy  spirit  lingering 
near. 
The  darkness  hides  the  way  that  I 
should  go. 

Canst  thou  not  bid  the  empty  realms 
restore 
That    form,    the    symbol    of    thy 
heavenly  part  ? 
Or  on  the  fields  of  barren  silence 
pour 
That  voice,  the  perfect  music  of 
thy  heart  ? 


Oh,  once,  once  bending  to  these  wid- 
owed lips. 
Take  back  the  tender  warmth  of 
life  from  me. 
Or  let  thy  kisses  cloud  with  swift 
eclipse 
The  light  of  mine,   and  give  me 
death  with  thee  ? 


THE  SONG   OF  THE   CAMP. 

"Give    us    a    song!"  the  soldiers 
cried, 
The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps 
allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Mala- 
koff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman 
said, 

*'  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow; 
Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 

Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 
Below  the  smoking  cannon: 

Brave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from 
Clyde, 
And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory: 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "  Annie  Lawrie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose    like    an    anthem,    rich    and 
strong,  — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,   her    name  he  dared  not 
speak. 

But,  as  the  song  grew  louder. 
Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 

Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 


TAYLOR. 


Beyond  tbe  darkening  ocean  burned 
The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 

While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 
How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of 
shell. 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "  Annie  Lawrie." 

Sleep,  soldiers !  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing: 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


TO  A  BAVARIAN  GIRL. 

Thou,  Bavaria's  brown-eyed  daugh- 
ter, 

Art  a  shax)e  of  joy, 
Standing  by  the  Isar's  water 

With  thy  brother-boy; 
In  thy  dream,  with  idle  fingers 

Threading  through  his  curls. 
On  thy  cheek  the  sun's  kiss  lingers, 

Rosiest  of  girls  1 


Woods  of  glossy  oak  are  ringing 

With  the  echoes  bland. 
While  thy  generous  voice  is  singing 

Songs  of  Fatherland,  — 
Songs,  that  by  the  Danube's  river 

Sound  on  hills  of  vine. 
And    where  waves    in   green    light 
quiver, 

Down  the  rushing  Rhine. 

Life,  with  all  its  hues  and  changes, 

To  thy  heart  doth  lie 
Like  those  dreamy  Alpine  ranges 

In  the  southern  sky ; 
Where  in  haze  the  clefts  are  hidden, 

Which  the  foot  should  fear. 
And  the  crags  that  fall  unbidden 

Startle  not  the  ear. 

Where  the  village  maidens  gather 

At  the  fountain's  brim. 
Or  in  sunny  harvest  weather. 

With  the  reapers  trim ; 
Where  the  autumn  fires  are  burning 

On  the  vintage-hills; 
Where  the  mossy  wheels  are  turning 

In  the  ancient  mills ; 

Where  from  ruined  robber  towers 

Hangs  the  ivy's  hair. 
And  the  crimson  foxbell  flowers 

On  the  crumbling  stair;  — 
Everywhere,  without  thy  presence, 

Would  the  sunshine  fail, 
Fairest  of  the  maiden  peasants ! 

Flower  of  Isar's  vale. 


Sir  Henry  Taylor. 


[Fr(m  Philip  Van  Artevelde.] 
UNKNOWN  GREATNESS. 

He  was  a  man  of  that  unsleeping 
spirit. 

He  seemed  to  live  by  miracle:  his 
food 

Was  glory,  which  was  poison  to  his 
mind 

And  peril  to  his  body.    He  was  one 

Of  many  thousand  such  that  die  be- 
times, 


Whose  story  is  a  fragment,  known 
to  few. 

Then  comes  the  man  who  has  the 
luck  to  live. 

And  he's  a  prodigy.  Compute  the 
chances, 

And  deem  there's  ne'er  a  one  in  dan- 
gerous times 

Who  wins  the  race  of  glory,  but  thaij 
him 

A  thousand  men  more  gloriously  en- 
dowed 


570 


TAYLOR. 


Have  fallen  upon  the  course ;  a  thou- 
sand others 

Have  had  their  fortunes  foundered 
by  a  chance, 

Whilst  lighter  barks  pushed  past 
them ;  to  whom  add 

A  smaller  tally,  of  the  singular  few 

Who,  gifted  with  predominating  pow- 
ers, 

Bear  yet  a  temperate  will  and  keep 
the  peace. 

The  world  knows  nothing  of  its  great- 
est men. 


[From  Philip  Fan  Artevelde.] 
THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE. 

This  circulating  principle  of  life 
That  vivifies  the  outside  of  the  earth 
And  permeates  the  sea;    that  here 

and  there 
Awakening  up  a  particle  of  matter. 
Informs  it,  organizes,  gives  it  power 
To  gather  and  associate  to  itself, 
Transmute,  incorporate  other,  for  a 

term 
Sustains  the  congruous  fabric,  and 

then  quits  it ; 
This  vagrant  principle  so  multiform. 
Ebullient  here  and  undetected  there. 
Is  not  unauthorized,  nor  increate. 
Though  indestructible.      Life  never 

dies; 
Matter  dies  off  it,  and  it  lives  else- 
where. 
Or     elsehow     circumstanced      and 

shaped;  it  goes; 
At  every  instant  we  may  say  'tis  gone. 
But  never  it  hath  ceased ;  the  type  is 

changed, 
Is  ever  in  transition,  for  life's  law 
To  its  eternal  essence  doth  prescribe 
Eternal  mutability;  and  thus 
To  say  I  live  —  says,  I  partake  of  that 
Which  never  dies.    But  how  far  I 

may  hold 
An  interest  indivisible  from  life 
Through  change  (and  whether  it  be 

mortal  change. 
Change  of  senescence,  or  of  gradual 

growth. 
Or  other  whatsoever  'tis  alike) 


Is  question  not  of  argument,  but  fact. 

In  all  men  some  such  interest  inheres; 

In  most 'tis  posthumous;  the  more 
expand 

Om*  thoughts  and  feelings  past  the 
very  present. 

The  more  that  interest  overtakes  of 
change 

And  comprehends,  till  what  it  com- 
prehends 

Is  comprehended  in  eternity. 

And  in  no  less  a  span. 

Here  we  are 
Engendered  out  of  nothing  cogniza- 
ble. 
If  this  be  not  a  wonder,  nothing  is; 
If  this  be  wonderful,  then  all  is  so. 
Man's  grosser  attributes  can  generate 
What  is  not,  and  has  never  been  at  all ; 
What  should    forbid    his    fancy    to 

restore 
A  being  passed  away  ?    The  wonder 

lies 
In  the  mind  merely  of  the  wondering 

man. 
Treading  the  steps  of  common  life 

with  eyes 
Of  curious  inquisition,  some  will  stare 
At  each  discovery  of  JS'ature's  ways. 
As  it  were  new  to  find  that  God  con- 
trives. 


[From  Philip  Van  Artevelde.] 

LOVE  RELUCTANT  TO  ENDANGER 
ITS   OBJECT. 

There  is  but  one  thing  that  still 

harks  me  back. 
To  bring  a  cloud  upon  the  summer 

day 
Of  one  so  happy  and  so  beautiful,  — 
It  is  a  hard  condition.     For  myself, 
I  know  not  that  the  circumstance  of 

life 
In  all  its  changes  can  so  far  afflict  me 
As  makes  anticipation  much  worth 

while. 
But  she  is  younger,  —  of  a  sex  beside 
Whose  spirits  are  to  ours  as  flame  to 

fire. 
More  sudden,  and  more  perishable 

too; 


TAYLOR, 


571 


So  that  the  gust  wherewith  the  one 

is  kindled 
Extinguishes  the  other.   O  she  is  fair  I 
As  fair  as  heaven  to  look  upon !  as 

fair 
As  ever  vision  of  the  Virgin  blest 
That  weary  pilgrim,  resting  by  the 

fount 
Beneath  the  palm,  and  dreaming  to 

the  tune 
Of  flowing  waters,  duped  his  soul 

withal. 
It  was  permitted  in  my  pilgrimage 
To  rest  beside  the  fount  beneath  the 

tree, 
Beholding  there  no  vision,  but  a  maid 
Whose  form  was  light  and  graceful 

as  the  palm. 
Whose  heart  was  pure  and  jocund  as 

the  fount, 
And  spread  a  freshness  and  a  ver- 
dure round. 
This  was  permitted  in  my  pilgrimage. 
And  loath  am  I  to  take  my  staff  again. 
Say  that  I  fall  not  in  this  enterprise ; 
Yet  must  my  life  be  full  of  hazardous 

turns. 
And  they  that  house  with  me  must 

ever  live 
In  imminent  peril  of  some  evil  fate. 


[From  Philip  Van  Artevelde.] 
NATURE'S  NEED. 

The  human  heart  cannot  sustain 
Prolonged  unalterable  pain. 
And  not  till  reason  cease  to  reign 
Will  nature  want  some  moments  brief 
Of  other  moods  to  mix  with  grief; 
Such  and  so  hard  to  be  destroyed 
That  vigor  which  abhors  a  void. 
And  in  the  midst  of  all  distress. 
Such  Nature's  need  for  happiness! 
And  when   she    rallied  thus,  more 

high 
Her  spirits  ran,  she  knew  not  why, 
Than  was  their  wont,  in  tim«s  than 

these 
Less  troubled,  with  a  heart  at  ease. 
So  meet  extremes;  so  joy's  reboimd 
Is  highest  from  the  hoUowest  ground ; 
So  vessels  with  the  storm  that  strive 
Pitch  higher  as  they  deeplier  dive. 


{From  Philip  Van  Artevelde.] 
WHEN  JOYS  ABE  KEENEST. 

The  sweets  of  converse  and  society 
Are  sweetest  when  they're  snatched; 

the  of  ten-comer. 
The  boon  companion  of  a  thousand 

feasts, 
Whose  eye  has  grown  familiar  with 

the  fair. 
Whose  tutored  tongue,  by  practice 

perfect  made. 
Is  tamely  talkative,  —  he  never  knows 
That  truest,  rarest  light  of  social  joy 
Which  gleams  upon  the  man  of  many 

cares. 


[From  Philip  Van  Artevelde.] 
RELAXATION. 

It  was  not  meant 
By  him  who  on  the  back  the  burden 

bound, 
That  cares,  though  public,   critical, 

and  grave. 
Should  so  encase  us  and  encrust,  as 

shuts 
The  gate  on  what  is  beautiful  below. 
And  clogs  those  entries  of  the  soul  of 

man 
Which  lead  the  way  to  what  he  hath 

of  heaven. 


WHAT  MAKES  A  HERO' 

What  makes  a  hero  ?  —  not  success, 

not  fame. 
Inebriate  merchants,  and  the  loud 
acclaim 
Of  glutted  Avarice,  —  caps  tossed 

up  in  air. 
Or  pen  of  journalist  with  flourish 
fair; 
Bells  pealed,  stars,  ribbons,  and  a 
titular  name  — 
These,  though  his  rightful  tribute, 
he  can  spare ; 
His  rightful  tribute,  not  his  end  or 
aim. 
Or  true  reward ;  for  never  yet  did 
these 


672 


TAYLOR. 


Refresh  the  soul,  or  set  the  heart 
at  ease. 
What  makes  a  hero  ?  —  An  heroic 

mind, 
Expressed    in  action,  in  endurance 
proved.  [right, 

And  if  there  be  pre-eminence  of 
Derived  through  pain  well  suffered, 
to  the  height 
Of   rank   heroic,    'tis  to   bear   un- 
moved, 
Not  toil,  not  risk,  not  rage  of  sea  or 

wind. 
Not    the  brute  fiuy   of    barbarians 
blind, 
But  worse  —  ingratitude  and  poi- 
sonous darts, 


Launched  by  the  Country  he  had 
served  and  loved : 
This,  with  a  free,  unclouded  spirit 

pure. 
This,  in  the  strength  of  silence  to 
endure, 
A  dignity  to  noble  deeds  imparts 
Beyond  the  gauds  and  trappings  of 

renown ; 
This  is  the  hero's  complement  and 
crown ; 
This  missed,  one  struggle  had  been 

wanting  still,  — 
One  glorious  triumph  of  the  heroic 
will, 
One  self-approval  in  his  heart  of 
hearts. 


Jane  Taylor. 


THE  SQUIRE'S  PEW. 

A  SLANTING  ray  of  evening  light 
Shoots  through  the  yellow  pane ; 

It  makes  the  faded  crimson  bright. 
And  gilds  the  fringe  again ; 

The  window's  gothic  framework  falls 

In  oblique  shadow  on  the  walls. 

And  since  those  trappings  first  were 
new, 

How  many  a  cloudless  day, 
To  rob  the  velvet  of  its  hue. 

Has  come  and  passed  away ; 
How  many  a  setting  sun  hath  made 
That  curious  lattice-work  of  shade ! 

Crumbled  beneath  the  hillock  green 
The  cunning  hand  must  be. 

That  carved  this  fretted  door,  I  ween. 
Acorn,  and  fleur-de-lis  ; 

And  now  the  worm  hath  done  her 
part 

In  mimicking  the  chisel's  art. 

In  days  of  yore  (as  now  we  call) 
When  the  first  James  was  king. 

The  courtly  knight  from  yonder  hall 
Hither  his  train  did  bring; 

All  seated  round  in  order  due. 

With  broidered  suit  and  buckled  shoe. 


On  damask  cushions,  set  in  fringe, 
All  reverently  they  knelt ; 

Prayer-books,  with  brazen  hasp  and 
hinge, 
In  ancient  English  spelt. 

Each  holding  in  a  lily  hand. 

Responsive  at  the  priest's  command. 

Now,  streaming  down    the  vaulted 
aisle. 
The  sunbeam,  long  and  lone. 
Illumes  the  characters  awhile 
Of  their  inscription-stone ; 
And    there,    in    marble    hard    and 

cold, 
The  knight  and  all  his  train  behold. 

Outstretched  together,  are  expressed 

He  and  my  lady  fair; 
With  hands  uplifted  on  the  breast, 

In  attitude  of  prayer  ; 
Long-visaged,  clad  in  armor,  he, — 
With  ruffled  arm  and  bodice,  she. 

Set  forth  in  order  ere  they  died. 
The  numerous  offspring  bend; 

Devoutly  kneeling  side  by  side, 
As  though  they  did  intend 

For  past  omissions  to  atone. 

By  saying  endless  prayers  in  stone. 


TENNYSON. 


673 


These  mellow  days  are  past  and  dim, 

But  generations  new, 
In  regular  descent  from  him, 

Have  filled  the  stately  pew; 
And  in  the  same  succession  go, 
To  occupy  the  vault  below. 

And  now,  the  polished,  modem  sqtiire 

And  his  gay  train  appear, 
Wlio  duly  to  the  hall  retire, 

A  season,  every  year,  — 
And  fill  the  seats  with  belle  and  beau, 
As  'twas  so  many  years  ago. 

Perchance,  all  though  tlessas  they  tread 
The  hollow  sounding  floor, 

Of  that  dark  house  of  kindred  dead, 
Which  shall,  as  heretofore, 


In  turn,  receive,  to  silent  rest. 
Another,  and  another  guest, — 

The     feathered    hearse    and    sable 
train. 
In  all  its  wonted  state, 
Shall  wind  along  the  village  lane, 

And  stand  before  the  gate ; 
Brought    many    a   distant    country 

through, 
To  join  the  final  rendezvous. 

And  when  the  race  is  swept  away, 

All  to  their  dusty  beds, 
Still  shall  the  mellow  evening  ray 

Shine  gayly  o'er  their  heads: 
While  other  faces,  fresh  and  new. 
Shall  occupy  the  squire's  pew. 


Alfred  Tennyson. 

COUPLETS  FROM  ^'LOCKSLEY  HALL:* 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  his  glowing  hands: 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might : 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music  out  of  sight. 


As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is :  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown. 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 


Comfort  ?  comfort  scorned  of  devils !  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings. 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 


Not  in  Tain  the  distance  beacons.    Forward,  forward  let  us  range. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 


574 


TENNYSON, 


[From  In  Memoriam.] 
STRONG  SON  OF  GOD. 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy 

face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and 

shade ; 

Thou  madest  life  in  man  and  brute, 

Thou  madest  Death;  and  lo,  thy 

foot 

Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust: 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not 

why; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 
And  thou  hast  made  him:  thou  art 
just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The    highest,    holiest    manhood, 

thou: 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not 
how; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them 
thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day ; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be ; 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee. 
And  thou,0  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith :  we  cannot  know ; 
For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see : 
And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from 
thee, 

A  beam  in  darkness:  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to 
more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell : 
That  mind  and  soul  according  well. 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.    We  are  fools  and  slight : 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not 

fear: 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 
Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy 
light. 


Forgive  what  seemed  my  sin  in  me : 
What  seemed  my  worth  since    I 

began ; 
For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so 

fair, 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive   these  wild  and  wandering 
cries. 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth : 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in 
truth, 
And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


[From  In  Memoriam.'] 
HOPE  FOR  ALL. 

Oh,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood : 

That   nothing  walks,  with   aimless 
feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
WTien  God  hath  made  the  pile  com- 
plete: 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire. 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold  we  know  not  anything: 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  —  far-off  —  at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 


TENNYSON. 


5Y5 


Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That     Nature     lends     such    evil 

dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

1  falter  where  I  finnly  trod, 
And  falling  with   my  weight   of 

cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 
That  slope  through  darkness  up  to 
God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and 
grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and 

call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 
And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


IFrom  In  Afemoriam,] 
SOUL  TO  SOUL. 

I  SHALL  not  see  thee.    Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native 
land, 
Where  first  he  walked  when  claspt  in 
clay? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 
But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may 

come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is 
numb 
Spirit  to  spirit,  ghost  to  ghost 

Oh,    therefore    from    thy    sightless 
range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss. 
Oh,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold  complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter:  hear 
The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to 
name; 


That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 
My  ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 


[From  In  Memoriam.] 

CONDITION  OF  SPIIilTUAL 
COMMUNION. 

How  pure  at   heart   and  sound   in 
head. 
With  what  divine  affections  bold, 
Should  be  the  man  whose  thought 
would  hold 
An    hour's    communion    with    the 
dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 
The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst 
say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They    haunt    the    silence    of    the 
breast, 
Imagination  calm  and  fair, 
The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air. 

The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest: 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 
And  Doubt  beside  the  portal  waits. 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates. 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


[From  In  Memoriam.] 
FAITH  IN  DOUBT. 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There 'lives  more  faith  in  honest 
doubt. 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gathered 
strength. 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment 

blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 
And    laid    them:   thus  he  came  at 
length 


576 


TJENNYSOK. 


To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own : 
And  Power  was  with  him  in  the 

night, 
Which" makes  the  darkness  and  the 
light, 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
Wliile  Israel  made  their  gods  of 
gold. 

Although  the  ti-umpet  blew  so  loud. 


[From  In  Memoriam.'] 
TO  A  FRIEND  IN  HEAVEN. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal : 

0  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 
There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher; 

Known  and  unknown:  human,  di- 
vine: 
Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and 

eye: 
Dear   heavenly  friend  that  canst 
not  die, 
Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to 
be: 
Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood : 
Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good, 

And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air: 

1  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun. 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?  I  can^jot  guess ; 

But    though  I  seem  in  star    and 
flower 

To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 
I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before: 
My  love  is  vaster  passion  now; 
Though  mixed  with  God  and  Na- 
ture thou, 

I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 


Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh : 
I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice: 
I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice : 

I  shall  not  lose  thee  though  I  die- 


[From  In  MemoriamJ] 
RING  OUT,    WILD  BELLS. 

King  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  skji 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more : 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife: 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times : 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful 
rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and 
blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite : 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease : 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


TENNYSON, 


577 


» 


[From  The  Princess.^ 
TEARS,  IDLE  TEARS. 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what 

they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divhie 

despair 
Bise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the 

eyes. 
In   looking  on  the   happy  autumn 

fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering 

on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the 

underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over 

one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 

verge: 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark 
summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened 
birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  easement  slowly  grows  a  glim- 
mering square: 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are 
no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after 

death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy 

feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others :  deep  as 

love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all 

regret: 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 


[From  The  Princess.'] 
FOR  HIS  CHILD'S  SAKE. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead : 
She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry: 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 


Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low» 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe: 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 

liiglitly  to  the  warrior  stept. 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face: 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 


Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like    summer    tempest    came 
tears  — 
"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


her 


[From  The  Princess.] 
RECONCILIA  TION. 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, , 

And  plucked  the  ripest  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
Oh,  we  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 
And  kissed  again  with  tears. 


For  when  we  came  where  lies 
child 

We  lost  in  other  years. 
There  above  the  little  grave. 
Oh,  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kissed  again  with  tears. 


the 


[From  The  Princess.] 
BUGLE  SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls       /v""" 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long   light    shakes   across  the    Xt" 
lakes 
And  the    wild    cataract  leaps  in 
glory.  .-. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes    U 
\  flying,  -yrJ-  '' 

Blow,  bugle:  answer,  ecnbes,  dying,    ^> 
dyin^,  dying.     ,  " 

Oh,  haA,'  oh,  hear!   how  thin  and  - 
clear. 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going; 
Oh,  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blow 
ingl 


i^ 


578 


TliJNNrsUN. 


A--*^^  Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens 
^  '  replying:  ~i  ,c< 

Blow,  bugle :  anst^^er  echoes,  dying, 
-dpng,  dying. 

ynPC^^  O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
W,     And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
,^^^A*    Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 
•*=*^  \  flying,  w- 

^5/vAnd  answer  echoes,  answer,  dying, 
W*  dying,  dying. 

[From  The  Princess.^ 
NOW  LIES  THE  EARTB. 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to 
the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on, 
and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in 
me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweet- 
ness up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou, 

and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 


iFrom  The  Princess.] 
MAN  AND   WOMAN. 

For  woman  is  not  undeveloped  man. 
But  diverse :  could  we  make  her  as 

the  man. 
Sweet  love  were  slain:    his  dearest 

bond  is  this, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they 

grow: 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of 

man: 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral 

height. 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that 

throw  the  world; 


She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  child* 

\vard  care. 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger 

mind; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words: 
And  so  tliese  twain,  upon  the  skirts 

of  Time. 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-summed  in  all 

their  powers. 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent   each  and  reverencing 

each. 
Distinct  in  individualities. 
But  like  each  other  even  as  those 

who  love. 


[From  The  Princess.] 
CRADLE  SONG. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea. 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from   the   dying   moon,  and 
blow. 

Blow  him  again  to  me : 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty 
one  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon: 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the 
nest. 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon : 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty 
one,  sleep, 


[From  The  Princess.] 
ASK  ME  NO  MORE. 

Ask  me  no  more:  the  moon  may 
draw  the  sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven 

and  take  the  shape. 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or 
of  cape : 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  an- 
swered thee  ? 

Ask  me  no  more. 


W^.-.' 


COME    INTO    THE    GARDEN,     MAUD. 


Page  s8a 


TENNYSON. 


679 


Ask  me    no   more:    What   answer 
should  I  give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded 

eye: 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have 
thee  die ! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid 
thee  live  : 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  thy  fate  and  mine 
are  sealed : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all 

in  vain: 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the 
main: 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I 
yield : 

Ask  me  no  more. 


[From  The  Miller^s  Datighter.] 
LOVE. 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 
Even  so. 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget: 
Ah,  no!  no  I 


IFrom  The  Miller's  Daughter.] 
HUSBAND   TO    WIFE. 

Look  through  mine  eyes  with  thine. 
True  wife, 
Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms 
entwine : 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life. 
Look  through  my  very  soul  with 
thine ! 
Untouched  with  any  shade  of  years. 
May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears. 
Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them 
welL 


Yet  tears  they  shed :  they  had  their 
part 
Of   sorrow:   for  when    time  was 
ripe. 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  passed  again, 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before : 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us 
pain. 
That  loss  but  made  us  love  the 
more. 

With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee: 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  —  who 
wrought 
Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With    blessings    beyond    hope     or 
thought, 
With    blessings  which   no    words 
can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth. 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 
And    fires    your   narrow    casement 
glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless,  let  us  go. 


IFrom  The  Miller's  DaugJUer.} 
WHAT  I  WOULD  BE. 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear : 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist. 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest: 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 


580 


TENNYSON, 


And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 
With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasped  at  night. 


{From  Merlin  and  Vivien.'] 
NOT  AT  ALL,   OR  ALL  IN  ALL. 

In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love 

be  ours, 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal 

powers ; 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in 

all. 

It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute. 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music 

mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lover's 

lute 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garnered  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward,  slowly  moulders 

all. 

It  is  not  worth   the  keeping:  let 

it  go: 
But  shall  it  ?  answer,  darling,  answer, 

no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. 


{From  Maiid.] 
GARDEN  SONG. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone : 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted 
abroad. 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that 
she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 


To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that 
she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon: 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine 
stirred 
To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking 
bird. 
And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be 
gay. 
When  will    the  dancers   leave   her 
alone  ? 
She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are 
gone, 
And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the 
stone 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night 
goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are 
those. 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to 
the  rose, 
"  Forever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into 
my  blood. 
As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on 
to  the  wood. 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have 
left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March  wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we 
meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


TENNYSON, 


581 


The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the 
lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for 
your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of 
girls. 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In    gloss  of    satin  and  glimmer  of 
pearls. 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 
Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over 
with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 
She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she 
is  near;" 
And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is 
late;" 
The   larkspur   listens,    "I   hear,   I 
hear;" 
And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her,  and  beat. 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed. 
My  dust  would  hear  her,  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead : 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her 
feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


{From  MaudJ] 
GO  NOT,  HAPPY  DAY. 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships, 
Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  through  the  West, 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree. 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  through  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks. 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


{From  Guinevere.'] 
THE  NUNS'  SONG. 

Late,  late,  so  late!  and  dark  the 

night  and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late !  but  we  can  enter 

still. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

No  light  had  we:  for  that  we  do 

repent : 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom 

will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

No   light:  so  late!  and  dark  and 

chill  the  night; 
Oh,  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the 

light! 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

Have  we  not  heard  the  bride- 
groom is  so  sweet  ? 

Oh,  let  us  in,  though  late,  to  kiss  his 
feet! 

No,  no,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter 
now. 


582^ 


TENNYSON. 


THE   DEATH  OF  THE   OLD    YEAR. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily 

sighing: 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  die : 
You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still ;  he  doth  not  move ; 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above ;      [love. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true,  true- 

And  the  new  year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go : 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go.  • 

He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see ; 

But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a  friend  to  me. 
Old  year;  you  shall  not  die: 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you. 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend, 

And  the  new  year,  blithe  and  bold, 
my  friend. 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro: 
The  cricket  chirps:  the  light  bums 

low: 
^Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you: 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 


His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes :  tie  up  his  chin : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my 
friend. 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my 
friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


A    WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 

Sea-kings*  daughter  from  over  the 

sea, 

Alexandra! 
Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 
But  all  of  us  Dan^s  in  our  welcome 

of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 
Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and 

of  fleet! 
Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of 

the  street ! 
Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and 

sweet, 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet! 
Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flow- 
ers! 
Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-bud- 
ded bowers! 
Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and 

prayer ! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that 

is  ours ! 
Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare ! 
Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and 

towers ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare ! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire ! 
Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March 

air! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire! 
Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and 

higher 
Melt  into  the  stars   for  the  land's 

desire ! 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 
Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dashed  on.  the 

strand. 
Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes 

the  land, 


TENNYSON, 


58S 


And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's 

desire, 
The  sea-kings'  daughter,  as  happy  as 

fair, 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir, 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the 

sea  — 
O  joy  to  the  people,  and  joy  to  the 

throne. 
Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us 

your  own, 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 
Teuton  or  Celt  or  whatever  we  be. 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome 

of  thee, 

Alexandra! 


LADY  CLARA    VERB  DE   FERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown  : 
You   thought   to   break   a  country 
heart 

For   pastime,    ere    you   went   to 
town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  earls. 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Yere, 
I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your 
name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 
Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I 
came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet 
sake 
A    heart    that     doats    on    truer 
charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  himdred  coats  of  arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some    meeker    pupil    you .  must 
find 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could 
love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
You  put  strange  memories  in  my 
head; 
Nor  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 
Since  I  beheld    young   Laurence 
dead. 
Oh,  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be : 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
When  thus  he  met  his  mother's 
view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind. 
She  spake  some  certain  truths  of 
you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear: 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall: 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door: 
You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to 
.     gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  re- 
morse, 
To   make   him    trust  his  modest 
worth, 
And,  last,  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare. 
And   slew  him  with    your   noble 
birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us 
bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Srnile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And    simple   faith  than  Norman 
blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  '. 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and 
towers : 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 


584 


TENNYSON. 


In  glowing  health,  with  boundless 
wealth, 
But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease. 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 
You  needs  must  play  such  pranks 
as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew. 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart. 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Eode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  1 
Charge  for  the  guns !  "  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  I" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  himdred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them,     . 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well. 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wondered: 


Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke. 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not. 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them. 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made  I 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  I 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade! 

Noble  six  hundred ! 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

Beeak,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gi-ay  stones,  O  Sea  I 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could 
utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

Oh,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at 
play ! 
Oh,  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the 
bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill : 
But  oh,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished 
hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is 
still! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is 
dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THACKERAY, 


585 


MOVE  EASTWARD,  HAPPY  EARTH. 

Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and 
leave 

Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow: 
From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 

O  happy  planet,  eastward  go : 
Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow, 

Thy  silver-sister  world,  and  rise 

To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 
That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  lightly  home, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light. 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-mom. 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


THE   TEAPS  OF  HEAVEN. 

Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all 

night  till  morn. 
In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to 

weep, 
Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state 

forlorn 
With    self-wrought  evil  of  unnmn- 

bered  years. 
And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor 

reap. 
And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back 

her  tears 
Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and 

deep, 
And  showering  down  the  glory  of 

lightsome  day. 
Smiles  on  the  earth's  worn  brow  to 

win  her  if  she  may. 


COME  NOT  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD. 

Come  not  when  I  am  dead, 
To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my 
grave. 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head. 
And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou 
wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the 
plover  cry ; 

But  thou  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy 
crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest: 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick 
of  Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me 
where  I  lie: 

Go  by,  go  by. 


CIRCUMS  TANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  vil- 
lages [leas : 

Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  healthy 

Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival : 

Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard 
wall : 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with 
golden  ease: 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray 
church-tower 

Washed  with  still  rains  and  daisy- 
blossomed  ; 

Two  children  in  one  hamlet  bom  and 
bred :  [to  hour. 

So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour 


William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


AT  THE  CHURCH-GATE. 


A-LTHOUGH  I  enter  not. 
Yet  round  about  the  spot, 

Ofttime^  I  hover; 
^nd  near  the  sacred  gate, 
fVith  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 


The  minster-bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming; 
They've  hushed  the  minster-bell, 
The  OT^an  'gins  to  swell, — 

She's  coming, —  coming  I 


TIIAXTER. 


My  lady  comes  at  last, 

I  will  not  enter  there, 

Timid  and  stepping  fast, 

To  sully  your  pure  prayer, 

And  hastening  hither. 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

With  modest  eyes  downcast; 

She  comes, — she's  here, —  she's  past; 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 

May  heaven  go  with  her! 

Round  the  forbidden  place, 

- 

Lingering  a  minute, 

Kneel  imdisturbed,  fair  saint. 

Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait. 

Pour  ont  your  praise  or  plaint 

And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Meekly  and  duly; 

Angels  within  it. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


FAREWELL. 

The  crimson  sunset  faded  into  gray ; 
Upon  the  murmurous  sea  the  twi- 
light fell; 
The  last  warm  breath   of   the   de- 
licious day 
Passed  with  a  mute  farewell. 

Above  my  head,  in  the  soft  purple 
sky, 
A  wild  note  sounded  like  a  shrill- 
voiced  bell ; 
Three  gulls  met,  wheeled,  and  parted 
with  a  cry 
That  seemed  to  say,  "  Farewell!" 

I  watched  them ;  one  sailed  east,  and 
one  soared  west. 
And  one  went  floating  south;  while 
like  a  knell 
That  moTu-nful  cry  the  empty  sky 
possessed, 
"Farewell,  farewell,  farewell!" 

"Farewell!"    I    thought,   it    is  the 
earth's  one  speech; 
All  human  voices  the  sad  chorus 
swell ; 
Though  mighty  love  to  heaven's  high 
gate  may  reach, 
Yet  must  he  say,  "Farewell!" 

The  rolling  world  is  girdled  with  the 
sound, 
Perpetually  breathed  from  all  who 
dwell 
Upon  its  bosom,  for  no  place  is  found 
Where  is  not  heard,  "  Farewell ! " 


' '  Farewell,  farewell ! "  —  from  wave 
to  wave  't  is  tossed, 
From  wind  to  wind :  earth  has  one 
tale  to  tell ; 
All   other   sounds    are    dulled    and 
drowned  and  lost 
In  this  one  cry,  "  Farewell! " 


DISCONTENT, 

There  is  no  day  so  dark 
But  through  the  murk  some  ray  of 

hope  may  steal, 
Some  blessed  touch  from  heaven  that 
we  might  feel, 
If  we  but  chose  to  mark. 

We  shut  the  portals  fast. 
And  turn  the  key  and  let  no  sunshine 

in; 
Yet  to  the  worst  despair  that  comes 
through  sin 
God's  light  shall  reach  at  last. 

We  slight  our  daily  joy. 
Make  much  of  our  vexations,  thickly 

set 
Our  path  with  thorns  of  disconteni, 
and  fret 
At  our  fine  gold's  alloy, 

Till  bounteous  heaven  might  frown 
At  such  ingratitude,   and,  turning, 

lay 
On    our    impatience,    burdens    tha^ 
would  weigh 
Our  aching  shoulders  down. 


TEAXTER, 


6S7 


We  shed  too  many  tears, 
And  sigh  too  sore,  and  yield  us  up  to 

woe, 
As  if  God  had  not  planned  the  way 
we  go 
And  counted  out  our  years. 

Can  we  not  be  content, 
And  lift  our  foreheads  from  the  igno- 
ble dust 
Of  these  complaining  lives,  and  wait 
with  trust. 
Fulfilling  heaven's  intent  ? 

Must  we  have  wealth  and  power. 
Fame,  beauty,  all  things  ordered  to 

our  mind  ? 
Nay,  all  these  things  leave  happiness 
behind ! 
Accept  the  sun  and  shower, 

The  humble  joys  that  bless. 
Appealing  to  indifferent  hearts  and 

cold 
With  delicate  touch,  striving  to  reach 
and  hold 
Our  hidden  consciousness; 

And  see  how  everywhere 
Love  comforts,  strengthens,   helps, 

and  saves  us  all ; 
What  opportunities  of  good  befall 

To  make  life  sweet  and  fair  I 


THE  SUNRISE  NEVER  FAILED  US 
YET. 

Upon  the  sadness  of  the  sea 
The  sunset  broods  regretfully ; 
From  the  far  lonely  spaces,  slow 
Withdraws  the  wistful  afterglow. 

So  out  of  life  the  splendor  dies ; 
So  darken  all  the  happy  skies; 
So  gathers  twilight,  cold  and  stem; 
But  overhead  the  planets  bum; 

And  up  the  east  another  day 
Shall  chase  the  bitter  dark  away; 
What  though  our  eyes  with  tears  be 

wet? 
The  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet 


The  blush  of  dawn  may  yet  restore 
Our  light  and  hope  and  joy  once 

more 
Sad  soul,  take  comfort,  nor  forget 
That  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet ! 


A  MUSSEL-SHELL. 

Why  art  thou  colored  like  the  even- 
ing sky 

Sorrowing  for  sunset  ?  Lovely  dost 
thou  lie. 

Bared  by  the  washing  of  the  eager 
brine. 

At  the  snow's  motionless  and  wind- 
carved  line. 

Cold  stretch  the  snows,  cold  throng 
the  waves,  the  wind 

Stings  sharp, —  an  icy  fire,  a  touch 
unkind, — 

And  sighs  as  if  with  passion  of  re- 
gret. 

The  while  I  mark  thy  tints  of  violet. 

O  beauty  strange !  O  shape  of  perfect 

grace. 
Whereon    the  lovely  waves  of  color 

trace 
The  history  of  the  years  that  passed 

thee  by. 
And  touched  thee  with  the  pathos  of 

the  sky! 

The  sea  shall  cmsh  thee;  yea,  the 
ponderous  wave 

Up  the  loose  beach  shall  grind,  and 
scoop  thy  grave, 

Thou  thought  of  God !  What  more 
than  thou  am  I  ? 

Both  transient  as  the  sad  wind's  pass- 
ing sigh. 


REVERIE. 

The  white  reflection  of  the  sloop's 
great  sail 
Sleeps  trembling  on  the  tide, 
In  scarlet  trim  her  crew  lean  o'er  the 
rail. 
Lounging  on  either  side. 


688 


THAXTER. 


Pale  blue  and  streaked  with  pearl  the 
waters  lie, 
And  glitter  in  the  heat; 
The  distance  gathers  purple  bloom 
where  sky 
And  glimmering  coast-line  meet. 

From  the  cove's  curving  rim  of  sandy 
gray 
The  ebbing  tide  has  drained, 
Wliere,   mournful,   in    the  dusk   of 
yesterday 
The  curlew's  voice  complained. 

Half  lost  in  hot  mirage  the  sails  afar 
Lie  dreaming,  still  and  white ; 

No  wave  breaks,  no  wind  breathes, 
the  peace  to  mar,    - 
Summer  is  at  its  height. 

How  many  thousand  summers  thus 
have  shone 
Across  the  ocean  waste. 
Passing  in  swift  succession,  one  by 
one 
By  the  fierce  winter  chased ! 

The  gray  rocks  blushing  soft  at  dawn 
and  eve. 
The  green  leaves  at  their  feet, 
The  dreaming  sails,  the  crying  birds 
that  grieve. 
Ever  themselves  repeat. 

And  yet  how  dear  and  how  forever 
fair 
Is  Nature's  friendly  face. 
And  how  forever  new  and  sweet  and 
rare 
Each  old  familiar  grace ! 

What  matters  it  that  she  will  sing 
and  smile 

When  we  are  dead  and  still  ? 
Let  us  be  happy  in  her  beauty  while 

Our  hearts  have  power  to  thrill. 

Let   us    rejoice    in    every   moment 
bright. 
Grateful  that  it  is  ours ; 
Bask  in  her  smiles  with  ever  fresh 
delight. 
And  gather  all  her  flowers ; 


For  presently  we   part:   what   will 
avail 
Her  rosy  fires  of  dawn. 
Her  noontide  pomps,  to  us,  who  fade 
and  fail. 
Our  hands  from  hers  withdrawn  ? 


LOVE  SHALL  SAVE    US  ALL. 

O  PILGRIM,  comes  the  night  so  fast  ? 

Let  not  the  dark  thy  heart  appall, 
Though  loom  the  shadows  vague  and 
vast. 

For  love  shall  save  us  all. 

There  is  no  hope  but  this  to  see 
Through  tears  that  gather  fast,  and 
fall; 

Too  great  to  perish  love  must  be, 
And  love  shall  save  us  all. 

Have  patience  with   our   loss    and 
pain. 
Our   troubled   space    of   days   so 
small ; 
We  shall  not  reach  our  arms  in  vain, 
For  love  shall  save  us  all. 

O  pilgrim,  but  a  moment  wait, 
And  we  shall  hear  our   darlings 
call 

Beyond  death's  mute  and  awful  gate, 
And  love  shall  save  us  all ! 


TO   A   VIOLIN. 

What  wondrous  power  from  heaven 
upon  thee  wrought  ? 
What  prisoned  Ariel  within  thee 
broods  ? 
Marvel  of  human  skill  and  human 
thought, 
Light  as  a  dry  leaf  in  the  winter 
woods ! 

Thou   mystic   thing,    all    beautiful! 
What  mind 
Conceived  thee,  what  intelligence 
began 
And  out  of  chaos  thy  rare  shape  de- 
signed. 
Thou  delicate  and  perfect  work  of 
man? 


THAXTER. 


589 


Across  my  hands  thou  liest  mute  and 
still; 
Thou  wilt  not  breathe  to  me  thy 
secret  fine ; 
Thy  matchless  tones  the  eager  air 
shall  thrill 
To   no    entreaty  or  command  of 
mine; 

But  comes  thy  master,  lol  thou  yield- 
est  all : 
Passion  and  pathos,  rapture  and 
despair; 
To  the  soul's   need   thy  searching 
voice  doth  call 
In  language  exquisite  beyond  com- 
pare, 

Till  into  speech  articulate  at  last 
Thou  seem'st  to  break,  and  thy 
charmed  listener  hears 
Thee  waking  echoes  of  the  vanished 
past, 
Touching  the  source  of  gladness 
and  of  tears;  , 

And  with  bowed  head  he  lets  the 
sweet  wave  roll 
Across  him,  swayed  by  that  weird 
power  of  thine. 
And  reverence  and  wonder  fill  his 
soul 
That  man's  creation  should  be  so 
divine. 


COURAGE. 

Because  I  hold  it  sinful  to  despond, 
And  will  not  let  the  bitterness  of 
life 
Blind  me  with  burning   tears,  but 
look  beyond 
Its  tumult  and  its  strife ; 

Because  I  lift  my  head  above  the 
mist, 
Where    the   sun   shines  and    the 
broad  breezes  blow. 
By  every  ray  and   every  rain-drop 
kissed 
That  Grod's  love  doth  bestow; 


Think  you  I  find  no  bitterness  at  all? 
No  burden  to  be  borne,  like  Chris- 
tian's pack? 
Think  you  there  are  no  ready  tears 
to  fall 
Because  I  keep  them  back  ? 

Why  should  I  hug  life's  ills  with  cold 
reserve. 
To  curse  myself  and  all  who  love 
me  ?    Nay ! 
A  thousand  times  more  good  than  I 
deserve 
God  gives  me  every  day. 

And  in  each  one  of  these  rebellious 
tears 
Kept  bravely  back,  He  makes  a 
rainbow  shine ; 
Grateful  I  take  His  slightest  gift,  no 
fears 
Nor  any  doubts  are  mine. 

Dark  skies  must  clear,  and  when  the 
clouds  are  past. 
One  golden  day  redeems  a  weary 
year; 
Patient  I  listen,  sure  that  sweet  at 
last 
Will  sound  his  voice  of  cheer. 

Then  vex  me  not  with  chiding.     Let 
me  be. 
I  must  be  glad  and  grateful  to  the 
end; 
I  grudge  you  not  your  cold  and  dark- 
ness,—  me 
The  powers  of  light  befriend. 


IN  KITTERY  CHURCHYARD. 

Crushing  the  scarlet  strawberries  in 
the  grass, 

I  kneel  to  read  the  slanting  stone. 
Alas! 

How  sharp  a  sorrow  speaks !  A  hun- 
dred years 

And  more  have  vanished,  with  their 
smiles  and  tears, 

Since  here  was  laid,  upon  an  April 
day, 

Sweet  Mary  Chauncy  in  the  grave 
away,— 


690 


THAXTEB, 


A  hundred  years  since  here  her  lover 

stood 
Beside  her  grave  in  such  despairing 

mood, 
And  yet  from  out  the  vanished  past 

I  hear 
His  cry  of  anguish  sounding  deep 

and  clear, 
And  all  my  heart  with  pity  melts,  as 

though 
To-day's  bright  sun  were  looking  on 

his  woe. 
"  Of  such  a  wife,  O  righteous  heav- 
en! bereft, 
What  joy  for  me,  what  joy  on  earth 

is  left  ? 
Still  from  my  inmost  soul  the  groans 

arise. 
Still  flow  the  sorrows  ceaseless  from 

mine  eyes." 
Alas,  poor   tortured    soul!     I  look 

away 
From  the  dark  stone, —  how  brilliant 

shines  the  day ! 
A  low  wall,  over  which  the  roses 

shed 
Their   perfumed    petals,   shuts    the 

quiet  dead 
Apart  a  little,  and  the  tiny  square 
Stands  in  the  broad   and  laughing 

field  so  fair. 
And  gay  green  vines  climb  o'er  the 

rough  stone  wall. 
And  all  about  the  wild-birds  flit  and 

call. 
And  but  a  stone's-throw  southward, 

the  blue  sea 
Rolls  sparkling  in  and  sings  inces- 
santly. 
Lovely  as  any  dream  the  peaceful 

place, 
And  scarc(ily  changed  since  on  her 

gentle  face 
For  the  last  time  on  that  sad  April 

day 
He  gazed,  and  felt,  for  him,  all  beauty 

lay  [him 

Buried  with    her  forever.     Dull  to 
Looked  the    bright  world    through 

eyes  with  tears  so  dim ! 
"  I  soon  shall  follow  the  same  dreary 

way 
That  leads  and  opens  to  the  coasts 

of  day." 


His  only  hope !    But  when  slow  time 

had  dealt 
Firmly  with  him  and  kindly,  and  he 

felt 
The  storm  and  stress  of  strong  and 

piercing  pain 
Yielding  at  last,  and  he  grew  calm 

again. 
Doubtless   he  found    another  mate 

before 
He    followed    Mary    to    the    happy 

shore ! 
But  none  the  less  his  grief  appeals  to 

me 
Who  sit  and  listen  to  the  singing  sea 
This  matchless  summer  day,  beside 

the  stone 
He  made  to  echo  with   his    bitter 

moan, 
And  in  my  eyes  I  feel  the  foolish 

tears 
For  buried  sorrow,  dead  a  hundred 

years ! 


BEETHOVEN. 

O   Sovereign   Master!    stem   and 
splendid  power, 
That  calmly  dost  both  time  and 
death  defy ; 
Lofty  and  lone  as  mountain  peaks 
that  tower, 
Leading  our  thoughts  up  to  the 
eternal  sky : 
Keeper  of  some  divine,  mysterious 
key, 
Raising  us  far  above  all  human 
care. 
Unlocking  awful  gates  of  harmony 
To  let  heaven's  light  in  on  the 
world's  despair; 
Smiter  of  solemn  chords  that  still 
command 
Echoes  in  souls  that  suffer  and  as- 
pire. 
In  the  great  moment  while  we  hold 
thy  hand. 
Baptized  with  pain  and  rapture, 
tears  and  fire, 
God    lifts    our    saddened    foreheads 

from  the  dust, 
The  everlasting  God,  in  whom  we 
trust ! 


THOMSON. 


591 


THE   SANDPIPER. 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached 
and  dry 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands 
for  it,  [high, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky ; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand  out   the  w^hite  lighthouses 
high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 


I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful 
cry; 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery; 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong,     . 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye ; 
Stanch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and 
strong. 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 
When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furi- 
ously ? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  bum  so  bright ! 
To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou 
fly? 

I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 
The  tempest  rushes  through  the 
sky: 

For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 
Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I  ? 


James  Thomson. 


[From  The  Seasons."] 
PURE  AND  HAPPY  LOVE. 

But  happy  they!  the  happiest  of 

their  kind ! 
Whom  gentler  stai-s  unite,  and  in  one 

fate 
Their   hearts,    their    fortunes,    and 

their  beings  blend. 
'Tis  not  the  coarser  tie  of  human 

laws. 
Unnatural  oft,   and  foreign  to  the 

mind. 
That  binds  their  peace,  but  harmony 

itself. 
Attuning  all  their  passions  into  love ; 
Where    Friendship    full-exerts    her 

softest  power. 
Perfect  esteem  enlivened  by  desire 
Ineffable,  and  sympathy  of  soul; 
Thought  meeting  thought,  and  will 

preventing  will. 
With     boundless     confidence:     for 

nought  but  love 
Can  answer  love,  and  render  bliss 

secure. 


\_From  Tfie  Seasons.] 
THE   TEMPEST. 

Unusual     darkness    broods;     and 

growing,  gains 
The  full  possession  of  the  sky,  sur- 
charged 
With  wrathful  vapor,  from  the  secret 

beds. 
Where  sleep  the  mineral  generations, 

drawn. 
Thence  nitre,  sulphiu",  and  the  fiery 

spume 
Of  fat  bitumen,  steaming  on  the  day. 
With    various-tinctured     trains    of 

latent  flame. 
Pollute  the  sky,  and  in  yon  baleful 

cloud, 
A  reddening  gloom,  a  magazine  of 

fate, 
Ferment;  till,  by  the  touch  ethereal 

roused, 
The   dash   of   clouds,  or  irritating 

^var 
Of  fighting  winds,  while  all  is  calm 

below. 


592 


THOMSON. 


They  furious  spring.     A  boding  si- 
lence reigns, 
Dread  through  the  dun  expanse ;  save 

the  dull  sound 
That  from  the  mountain,  previous  to 

the  storm. 
Rolls  o'er  the  muttering  earth,  dis- 
turbs the  flood. 
And  shakes  the  forest-leaf  without  a 

breath. 
Prone,  to  the'  lowest  vale,  the  aerial 

tribes 
Descend:    the  tempest-loving  raven 

scarce 
Dares  wing  the  dubious  dusk.     In 

rueful  gaze 
The  cattle  stand,  and  on  the  scowling 

heavens 
Cast  a  deploring  eye ;  by  man  forsook. 
Who  to  the  crowded  cottage  hies  him 

fast. 
Or  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  downward 

cave. 
'Tis    listening    fear,    and    dumb 

amazement  all : 
When  to  the  startled  eye  the  sudden 

glance 
Appears  far  south,  eruptive  through 

the  cloud ; 
And  following  slower,  in  explosion 

vast, 
The  thunder  raises  his  tremendous 

voice. 
At  first,  heard  solemn  o'er  the  verge 

of  heaven. 
The  tempest  growls ;  but  as  it  nearer 

comes, 
And  rolls  its  awful  burden  on  the 

wind, 
The  lightnings  flash  a  larger  curve, 

and  more 
The  noise  astounds:  till  overhead  a 

sheet 
Of  livid  flame  discloses  wide,  then 

shuts, 
And  opens  wider;  shuts  and  opens 

still 
Expansive,    wrapping    ether    in    a 

blaze. 
Follows  the  loosened  aggravated  roar, 
Enlarging,  deepening,  mingling,  peal 

on  peal 
Crushed  horrible,  convulsing  heaven 

and  earth. 


Down  comes  a  deluge  of  sonorous 
hail, 

Or  prone-descending  rain.  Wide  rent, 
the  clouds 

Pour  a  whole  flood ;  and  yet  its  flame 
unquenched, 

The  unconquerable  lightning  strug- 
gles through. 

Ragged  and  fierce,  or  in  red  whirling 
balls. 

And  fires  the  mountains  with  re- 
doubled rage. 


\_From  The  Seasons."] 
HARVEST-TIME, 

A  SEEENER  blue, 

With  golden  light  enlivened,   wide 

invests 
The  happy  world.    Attempered  suns 

arise. 
Sweet-beamed,     and     shedding    oft 

through  lucid  clouds 
A  pleasing  calm;  while  broad  and 

brown,  below 
Extensive  harvests  hang  the  heavy 

head. 
Rich,  silent,  deep,  they  stand;  for 

not  a  gale 
Rolls  its  light  billows  o'er  the  bend- 
ing plain : 
A  calm  of  plenty !  till  the  ruflied  air 
Falls  from  its  poise,  and  gives  the 

breeze  to  blow. 
Rent  is  the  fleecy  mantle  of  the  sky ; 
The    clouds  fly  different;   and    the 

sudden  sun 
By  fits  effulgent  gilds  the  illumined 

field. 
And  black  by  fits  the  shadows  sweep 

along. 
A    gaily-chequered    heart-expanding 

view, 
Far  as  the  circling    eye  can  shoot 

around, 
Unbounded  tossing  in  a  flood  of  com. 
These  are    thy    blessings,  industry! 

rough  power ! 
Whom  labor  still  attends,  and  sweat, 

and  pain ; 
Yet  the  kind  source  of  every  gentle 

art. 
And  all  the  soft  civility  of  life. 


TEOMSON. 


593 


[Fnm  The  Seasons.] 
BIRDS,  AND    THEIR  LOVES. 

When  first  the  soul  of  love  is  sent 
abroad 

Warm  through  the  vital  air,  and  on 
the  heart 

Harmonious  seizes,  the  gay  troops 
begin. 

In  gallant   thought,  to   plume    the 
painted  wing; 

And    try    again    the   long-forgotten 
strain. 

At  first  faint-warbled.   But  no  sooner 
grows 

The  soft  infusion  prevalent,  and  wide, 

Than,  all  alive,  at  once  their  joy  o'er- 
flows 

In  music  unconfined.    Upsprings  the 
lark. 

Shrill-voiced,  and  loud,  the  messen- 
ger of  mom ; 

Ere  yet  the  shadows  fly,  he  mounted 
sings 

Amid  the  dawning  clouds,  and  from 
their  haunts 

Calls  up  the  tuneful  nations.    Every 
copse 

Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 

Bending  with  dewy  'moisture,  o'er 
the  heads 

Of  the  coy  quiristers  that  lodgewithin, 

Are    prodigal    of    harmony.      The 
thrush 

And  wood-lark,  o'er  the  kind-con- 
tending throng 

Superior    heard,    run    through    the 
sweetest  length 

Of  notes;  when  listening  Philomela 
deigns 

To  let  them  joy,  and  purposes,  in 
thought 

Elate,  to  make  her  night  excel  their 
day. 

The    blackbird   whistles    from    the 
thorny  brake; 

The  mellow  bullfinch  answers  from 
the  grove : 

Nor  are  the  linnets,  o'er  the  flower- 
ing furze 

Poured  out  profusely,  silent.    Joined 
to  these 

Innumerous  songsters,  in  the  fresh- 
ening shade 


Of  new-sprung  leaves  their  modula- 
tions mix 
Mellifluous.    The  jay,  the  rook,  the 
daw. 

And    each    harsh   pipe,    discordant 
heard  alone, 

Aid  the  full  concert :  while  the  stock- 
dove breathes 

A  melancholy  murmur  through  the 
whole. 

'Tis  love  creates  their  melody,  and  all 

This  waste  of  music  is  the  voice  of 
love. 

That  even  to  birds,  and  beasts,  the 
tender  arts 

Of    pleasing,  teaches.      Hence,    the 
glossy  kind 

Try  every  winning  way  inventive  love 

Can  dictate,  and  in  courtship  to  their 
mates 

Pour  forth  their  little  souls.  *  First, 
wide  around, 

With  distant  awe,  in  airy  rings  they 
rove, 

Endeavoring  by  a  thousand  tricks  to 
catch 

The  cunning,  conscious,  half-averted 
glance 

Of  their  regardless  charmer.     Should 
she  seem 

Softening  the  least  approvance  to  be- 
stow. 

Their  colors  burnish,  and  by  hope 
inspired. 

They  brisk  advance;  then,  on  a  sud- 
den struck. 

Retire    disordered;    then   again   ap- 
proach ; 

In  fond  rotation  spread  the  spotted 
wing. 

And  shiver  every  feather  with  desire. 


{From  The  Seasons.] 
DEATH  AMID   THE  SNOWS. 

All  winter  drives  along  the  dark- 
ened air: 

In  his  own  loose  revolving  fields,  the 
swain 

Disastered  stands;    sees  other  hills 
ascend. 

Of  unknown  joyless  brow;  and  other 
scenes 


594 


THOMSON. 


Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless 

plain ; 
Nor  finds  the  river,  nor  the  forest, 

hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild ;  but  wan- 
ders on 
From  hill  to  dale,   still    more    and 

more  astray ; 
Impatient     flouncing    through     the 

drifted  heaps, 
Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home; 

the  thoughts  of  home 
Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their 

vigor  forth 
In  many  a  vain  attempt.     How  sinks 

his  soul ! 
What  black  despair,  what  horror  fills 

his  heart ! 
When    for    the  dusky  spot,    which 

fancy  feigned 
His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the 

snow. 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle 

waste, 
Far  from  the  track  and  blest  abode 

of  man ; 
While    round  him  night,   resistless, 

closes  fast. 
And  every  tempest,  howling  o'er  his 

head,  [wild. 

Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more 
Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into 

his  mind. 
Of  covered  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 
A  dire  descent!  beyond  the  power  of 

frost ; 
Of  faithless  bogs ;  of  precipices  huge, 
Smoothed  up  with  snow ;  and,  what 

is  land,  unknown, 
What  water,   of    the  still  unfrozen 

spring. 
In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 
Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the 

bottom  boils. 
These  check  his  fearful  steps;  and 

down  he  sinks, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless 

drift. 
Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of 

death ; 
Mixed  M'ith  the  tender  anguish  na- 
ture shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of   the 

dying  man, 


His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends 

unseen. 
In  vain  for  him  the  officious  wife 

prepares 
The  fire  fair-blazing,  and  the  vest- 
ment warm ; 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping 

out 
Into    the   mingling    storm,   demand 

their  sire. 
With   tears    of    artless    innocence. 

Alas! 
Nor  wife,  nor  children  more  shall  he 

behold, 
Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.     On 

every  nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes ;  shuts  up 

sense ; 
And,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping 

cold. 
Lays  him  along  the  snows,  a  stiffened 

corse, 
Stretched  out,  and  bleaching  in  the 

northern  blast. 


[From  Liberty.'] 

INDEPENDENCE. 

Hail!  Independence,  hail!  Heav- 
en's next  best  gift, 

To  that  of  life  and  an  immortal 
soul! 

The  life  of  life !  that  to  the  banquet 
high 

And  sober  meal  gives  taste;  to  the 
bowed  roof 

Fair-dreamed  repose,  and  to  the  cot- 
tage charms. 


[From  Liberty.'] 
A  STATE'S  NEED  OF  VIRTUE. 

....  Virtue  !  without  thee. 

There  is  no  ruling  eye,  no  nerve,  in 
states ; 

War  has  no  vigor,  and  no  safety, 
peace : 

E'en  justice  warps  to  party,  laws  op- 
press, 

Wide  through  the  land  their  weak 
protection  fails, 

First  broke  the  balance,  and  then 
scorned  the  sword. 


THOMSON. 


595 


iFrom  Liberty,^ 
THE  ZEAL  OF  PERSECUTION. 

Mother    of    tortures!   persecuting 

Zeal, 
High  flashing  in  her  hand  the  ready 

torch, 
Or   poniard    bathed  in  unbelieving 

blood ; 
Jell's  fiercest  fiend!  of  saintly  brow 

demure, 
Assmning  a  celestial  seraph's  name. 
While  she  beneath  the  blasphemous 

pretence 
Of   pleasing    Parent    Heaven,    the 

Source  of  Love, 
Has  wrought   more   horrors,    more 

detested  deeds, 
Than  all  the  rest  combined  I 


[From  Liberty.'] 

THE  APOLLO,  AND   VENUS  OF 
MEDICL 

All  conquest-flushed,  from  pros- 
trate Python,  came 

The  quivered  god.  In  graceful  act 
he  stands, 

His  arm  extended  with  the  slackened 
bow; 

Light  flows  his  easy  robe,  and  fair 
displays 

A  manly  softened  form.  The  bloom 
of  gods 

Seems  youthful  o'er  the  beardless 
cheek  to  wave  : 

His  features  yet,  heroic  ardor  warms ; 

And  sweet  subsiding  to  a  native 
smile, 

Mixed  with  the  joy  elating  conquest 
gives, 

A  scattered  frown  exalts  his  match- 
less air. 

The  Queen  of  Love  arose,  as  from 

the  deep 
She  sprung  in  all  the  melting  pomp 

of  charms. 
Bashful  she  bends,  her  well-taught 

look  aside 
Turns  in  enchanting   guise,  where 

dubious  mix 


Vain  conscious  beauty,  a  dissembled 

sense 
Of  modest  shame,  and  slippery  looks 

of  love. 
The  gazer  grows  enamoured,  and  the 

stone. 
As  if  exulting  in  its  conquest,  smiles. 
So  turned  each  limb,  so  swelled  with 

softening  art, 
That    the   deluded  eye  the  maible 

doubts. 


[From  The  Castle  of  Indolence.'] 
REPOSE. 

What,  what  is  virtue,  but  repose  of 

mind, 
A  pure  ethereal  calm,  that  knows  no 

storm ; 
Above  the  reach  of  wild  ambition's 

wind, 
Above  those  passions  that  this  world 

deform. 
And  torture  man,  a  proud  malignant 

worm? 
But  here,  instead,  soft  gales  of  pas- 
sion play, 
And  gently  stir  the  heart,  thereby  to 

form 
A  quicker  sense  of  joy;  as  breezes 

stray 
Across  the  enlivened  skies,  and  make 

them  still  more  gay. 

The  best  of  men  have  ever  loved  re- 
pose : 
They  hate  to  mingle  in  the   filthy 

fray. 
Where  the  soul  sours,  and  gradual 

rancor  grows. 
Embittered  more  from  peevish  day  to 

day. 
E'en  those  whom  fame  has  lent  her 

fairest  ray, 
The  most  renowned  of  worthy  wights 

of  yore, 
From   a    base   world   at   last   have 

stolen  away: 
So  Scipio,  to  the  soft  Cumsean  shore 
Retiring,  tasted  joy  he  never  knew 

before. 


596 


THOMSON. 


{From  The  Castle  of  Indolence.] 
THE  FOLLY  OF  HOARDING. 

Oh,  grievous  folly !  to  heap  up  estate, 
Losiug  the  days  you  see  beneath  the 

sun; 
When,  sudden,  comes  blind  unrelent- 
ing fate, 
And  gives  the  untasted  portion  you 

have  won 
With  ruthless  toil,  and  many  a  wretch 

undone. 
To  those  who  mock  you,  gone  to 

Pluto's  reign, 
There  with  sad  ghosts  to  pine,  and 

shadows  dun: 
But  sure  it  is  of  vanities  most  vain, 
To  toll  for  what  you  here  untoiling 

may  obtain. 


[From  The  Castle  of  Indolence.] 
EXCESS   TO  BE  AVOIDED. 

But  not  e'en  pleasure  to  excess  is 

good: 
What  most  elates,   then  sinks  the 

soul  as  low : 
When  springtide  joy  pours  in  with 

copious  flood. 
The  higher  still  the  exulting  billows 

flow, 
The  further  back  again  they  flagging 

go, 
And  leave  us  grovelling  on  the  dreary 

shore. 


The  woods    and    lawns,    by    living 

stream,  at  eve; 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres 

brace, 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children 

leave : 
Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can 

me  bereave. 


[From  The  Castle  of  Indolence.] 
NATURE'S  JOY  INALIENABLE. 

I  CARE  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me 

deny: 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's 

grace; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the 

sky. 
Through  which  Aurora    shows  her 

brightening  face ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to 

trace 


[From  The  Castle  of  Indolence.] 

THE  STATE   OF  THE    WORLD  HAD 
MEN  LIVED  AT  EASE. 

Had    imambitious   mortals  minded 

nought. 
But  in  loose  joy  their  time  to  wear 

away ; 
Had  they  alone  the  lap  of  dalliance 

sought. 
Pleased  on  her  pillow  their  dull  heads 

to  lay, 
Rude  nature's    state  had  been  our 

state  to-day ; 
No  cities  e'er  their  towery  fronts  had 

raised. 
No  arts  had  made  us  opulent  and 

gay; 
With  brother  brutes  the  human  race 

had  grazed ; 
None  e'er  had  soar'd  to  fame,  none 

honored  been,  none  praised. 

Great  Homer's  song  had  never  fired 

the  breast 
To     thirst    of    glory,    and     heroic 

deeds; 
Sweet  Maro's  muse,  sunk  in  inglori- 
ous rest, 
Had  silent  slept  amid  the  Mincian 

reeds : 
The  wits  of  modem  time  had  told 

their  beads, 
The  monkish  legends  been  their  only 

strains ; 
Our  Milton's  Eden  had  lain  wrapt  in 

weeds, 
Our  Shakespeare  strolled  and  laughed 

with  Warwick  swains, 
Ne  had  my  master  Spenser  charm' d 

his  Mulla's  plains. 


THOMSON, 


597 


[Fr<m  The  Castle  of  Indolence.'] 

HEALTH   NECESSARY    TO    HAPPY 
LIFE. 

Ah  I  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of 

Heaven, 
When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go 

amiss? 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be 

given? 
Health    is    the   vital    principle    of 

bliss, 
And  exercise  of  health.    In  proof  of 

this. 
Behold  the  wretch,  who  slugs  his  life 

away. 
Soon    swallowed    in    disease's    sad 

abyss ; 
While  he  whom  toil  has  braced,  or 

manly  play, 
As  light  as  air  each  limb,  each  thought 

as  cle^r  as  day. 

Oh,  who  can  speak  the  vigorous  joys 

of  health! 
Unclogg'd  the  body,  unobscured  the 

mind: 
The  morning  rises  gay,  with  pleasing 

stealth. 
The  temperate  evening  falls  serene 

and  kind. 
In  health  the  wiser  brutes  true  glad- 
ness find  : 
Seel  how  the  younglings  frisk  along 

the  meads, 
As  May  comes  on,  and  wakes  the 

balmy  wind ; 
Rampant  with  life,  their  joy  all  joy 

exceeds ; 
Yet  what  but  high-strung  health  this 

dancing  pleasaunce  breeds? 


CONTENTMENT. 

If   those,    who   live  in  shepherd's 
bower, 
Press  not  the  rich  and  stately  bed : 
The  new-mown  hay  and  breathing 
flower 
A    softer    couch    beneath    them 
spread. 


If  those,  who  sit  at  shepherd's  board. 
Soothe  not  their  taste  by  wanton 
art; 

They  take  what  Nature's  gifts  afford, 
And  take  it  with  a  cheerful  heart. 

If    those  who  drain  the  shepherd's 
bowl. 
No  high  and  sparkling  wines  can 
boast, 
With  wliolesome  cups  they  cheer  the 
soul. 
And  crown  them  with  the  village 
toast. 

If  those  who  join  in  shepherd's  sport, 
Gay  dancing  on  the  daisied  ground, 

Have  not  the  splendor  of  a  court : 
Yet  love  adorns  the  merry  round. 


RULE,  BRITANNIA! 

When    Britain   first,    at   Heaven's 
command, 
Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 
And    guardian    angels    sung    this 
strain : 
Rule,    Britannia,    rule    the 

waves ; 
Britons  never  mil  be  slaves. 

The  nations,  not  so  blessed  as  thee, 
Must,   in    their   turns,  to  tyrants 
fall; 
While  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and 
free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Rule,  etc. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 
More  dreadful  from  each  foreign 
stroke ; 
As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule,  etc. 

Thee    haughty   tyrants   ne'er   shall 
tame: 
All    their  attempts  to  bend  thee 
down 


598 


TIL  TON, 


Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 
But  work  their  woe,  and  thy  re- 
nown. 
Kule,  etc. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign; 
Thy  cities    shall  with   commerce 
shine : 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main : 
And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 
Rule,  etc. 


The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair : 
Blessed  isle!  with  matchless  beauty 
crowned, 
And  manly   hearts    to   guard  the 
fair: 

Rule,    Britannia,    rule    the 

waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


Theodore  Tiltgn. 


[From  TTuM  and  /.] 
LOVE  m  AOE. 

For  us,  the  almond-tree 

Doth  flourish  now : 

Its  whitest  bloom  is  on  our  brow. 

Let  others  triumph  as  they  may 

And  wear  their  garlands  gay 

Of  olive,  oak,  or  bay : 

Our  crown  of  glory  is,  instead, 

The  hoary  head. 

Our  threescore  years  and  ten, 
That  measure  life  to  mortal  men. 
Have  lingered  to  a  longer  length 
By  reason  of  our  strength ; 
Yet,  like  a  tale  that  hath  been  told. 
They  all  have  passed,  and  now,  be- 
hold! 
We  verily  are  old ;  — 

Yea,  old  like  Abraham,  when  he  went, 

With  head  down  bent. 

And  mantle  rent. 

In  dole  for  her  who  lay  in  death, 

And  to  the  Sons  of  Heth 

The  silver  shekels  gave 

For  Mamre's  gloomy  cave, 

To  be  her  grave ;  — 

Or,  older  still,  like  him 
Who,  feeble  not  of  limb. 
With  eyes  not  dim, 
Upclirabed,  with  staff  in  hand. 
To  where  Mount  Nebo  cleft  the  sky. 
And  looked  and  saw  the  Promised 
Land 


(Forbidden  him  from  on  high) 
Till,  with  an  unrecorded  cry. 
He  laid  him  down  to  die. 

So  too,  for  us,  the  end  is  nigh. 
Our  mortal  race  is  nearly  run ; 
Our  earthly  toil  is  nearly  done! 
Ah,  thou  and  I, 

Who  in  the  grave  so  soon  shall  lie, 
Have  little  time  to  see  the  sun  — 
So  little  it  is  nearly  none  I 

What  then  ? 

Amen! 

All  hail,  my  love,  good  cheer! 

Keep  back  thy  unshed  tear! 

Not  thou  nor  I 

Shall  mourn  or  sigh. 

Nay  now,  we  twain  — 

Old  man,  old  wife. 

The  few  days  that  remain  — 

Let  us  make  merry —  let  us  laugh!— 

For  now  at  length  we  quaff 

The  last,  best  wine  of  life,  — 

The  very  last  —  the  very  best. 

The  double  cup  of  love  and  rest. 

What  though    the    groaning   world 

declare 
That  life  is  but  a  load  of  care  ?  — 
A  burden  wearisome  to  bear  ?  — 
That  as  we  journey  down  the  years, 
The  path  is  through  a  vale  of  tears  ?— 
Yet  we  who  have  the  burden  borne, 
And  travelled  until  travel-worn, 
Forget  the  weight  upon  the  back, 
Forget  the  long  and  weary  track, 


TIL  TON, 


599 


And  sit  remembering  here  to-day 
How  we  were  children  at  our  play :  — 

And  half  in  doze,  at  idle  ease, 
Before  the  hearth-fire's  dying  brands, 
With  elbows  on  our  trembling  knees, 
With    chin    between   our    wrmkled 

hands, 
We  sail  unnavigable  seas,  — 
We  roam  impenetrable  lands,  — 
We  leap  from  clime  to  clime,  — 
We  conquer  space  and  time. 

And,  howsoever  strange  it  seems, 
The  dearest  of  our  drowsy  dreams 
Is  of  that  billow-beaten  shore 
Where,  in  our  childish  days  of  yore, 
T7e  piled  the  salty  sands 
Into  a  palace  that  still  stands!  — 
Not  where  it  first  arose, 
Not  where  the  wild  wind  blows, 
Not  by  the  ocean's  roar,  — 
(For,  long  ago,  those  turrets  fell 
Beneath  that  billowy  swell),  — 
But,  down  within  the  heart's  deep 

core, 
Our  tumbled  tower  we  oft  restore 
And  ever  build  it  o'er  and  o'er! 

We  have  one  palace  more,  — 

Not  made  with  hands,  — 

Nor  have  our  feet  yet  entered  at  its 

door! 
It  lleth  not  behind  us,  but  before ! 

Dear  love,  our  pilgrimage  is  thither 

tending. 
And  there  shall  have  its  ending! 


Ah,  though  the  rapturous  vision 
Allures  us  to  a  Land  Elysian, 
Yet  aged  are  our  feet,  and  slow. 
And  not  in  haste  to  go. 

Life  still  hath  many  joys  to  give, 
Whereof  the  sweetest  is  —  to  live. 

Then  fear  we  death  ?    Not  so  I 
Or  do  we  tremble  ?    No ! 
Nor  do  we  even  grieve ! 
And  yet  a  gentle  sigh  we  heave, 
And  unto  Him  who  fixes  fate,  — 
Without  whose  sovereign  leave, 


Down-whispered  from  on  high, 
Not  even  the  daisy  dares  to  die, — 
We,  jointly,  thou  and  I, 
Implore  a  little  longer  date,  — 
A  little  term  of  kind  reprieve,  — 
A  httle  lease  till  by  and  by! 

May  it  be  Heaven's  decree,  — 

Here,  now,  to  thee  and  me,  — 

That,  for  a  season  still. 

The  eye  shall  not  grow  dim; 

That,  for  a  few  more  days, 

The  ear  cease  not  to  hear  the  hymn 

Which   the   tongue    utters    to    His 

praise ; 
That,  for  a  little  while. 
The  heart  faint  not,  nor  fail ; 
For  even  the  wintiy  sun  is  bright. 
And  cheering  to  our  aged  sight ; 
Yea,  though  the  frosts  prevail, 
Yet  even  the  icy  air, 
The  frozen  plain,  the  leafless  wood 
Still  keep   the  earth  as  fresh   and 

fair 
As  when  from  Heaven,  He  called  it 

good! 

O  final  Summoner  of  the  soul  I 
Grant,  of  thy  pitying  grace, 
That,  for  a  little  longer  space, 
The  pitcher  at  the  fountain's  rim 
Be    shattered    not,    but   still    kept 

whole,  — 
Still  overflowing  at  the  brim! 
If  but  a  year,  if  but  a  day. 
Thy  lifted  hand,  O  stay! 
Loose  Thou  not  yet,  O  Lord, 
The  silver  cord ! 
Break    Thou    not   yet   the   golden 

bowl! 


[From  Thou  and  /.] 
UNDER  THE  SOD. 

"Thou and  II" 
The  voice  no  longer  said ; 
But  two  white  stones,  instead, 
Above  the  twain,  long  dead. 
Still  utter,  each  to  each. 
The  same  familiar  speech, 
"Thou  and  I!"-- 


600 


TIL  TON. 


Not  spoken  to  the  passer-by, 
But  just  as  if,  beneath  the  grass. 
Deep  under  foot  of  all  who  pass, 
The  sleeping  dust  should  wake  to  say. 
Each  to  its  fellow-clay, 
Each  in  the  same  old  way, 
"Thou  and  I!" 

And  each  to  either  should  reply,  — 

(Tomb  murmuring  unto  tomb. 

Stone  answering  unto  stone, 

Yet  not  with  sound  of  human  moan. 

Nor  breath  of  mortal  sigh. 

But  voiceless  as    the   dead's  dumb 

cry,)  — 
"Thou  and  II" 

"  The  spirit  and  the  body  part, 
Yet  love  abideth,  heart  to  heart. 

"  O  silent  comrade  of  my  rest. 
With  hands  here  crossed  upon  thy 

breast, 
I  know  thee  who  thou  art ! 

0  marble  brow, 

Here  pillowed  next  to  mine, 

1  know  the  soul  divine  * 
That  tenanted  thy  shrine ! 

"  For,  though  above  us,  green  and 
high. 
The  yew-trees  grow. 
And  churchyard  ravens  fly. 
And  mourners  come  and  go. 
Yet  thou  and  I, 

Who  dust  to  dust  lie  here  below. 
Still  one  another  know ! 

"  Yea,  thee  I  know  —  it  still  is  thou; 

And  me  thou  know'st  —  it  still  is  I; 

True  lovers  once,  true  lovers  now  I  — 

The  same  old  vow. 

The  same  old  thrill, 

The  same  old  love  between  us  still ! 

"  The  gloomy  grave  hath  frosts  that 

kill, 
But  love  is  chilled  not  with  their 

chill. 

"Love's  flame  — 

Consuming,  unconsumed  — 

In  breasts  that  breathe  —  in  hearts 

entombed  — 
Is  fed  by  life  and  death  the  same ! 


"Love's  spark 

Is  brightest  when  love's  house  is  dark ! 

"  Love's  shroud  — 

That  wraps  its  bosom  round  — 

Must  crumble  in  the  charnel  ground, 

Till  all  the  long  white  winding-sheet 

Shall  drop  to  dust  from  head  to  feet : 

But  love's  strong  cord. 

The  eternal  tie, 

The  immortal  bond  that  binds 

Love's  twain  immortal  minds;  — 

This  silken  knot 

Shall  never  rot  — 

Nor  moulder  in  the  mouldy  mound  — 

Nor  mildew  —  nor  decay  — 

Nor  fall  apart  —  nor  drop  away  — 

Nor  ever  be  unbound ! 

"  Love's  dust, 

Whatever  grave  it  fill, 

Though  buried  deep,  is  deathless  still ! 

Love  hath  no  death,  and  cannot  die ! 

This  love  is  ours,  as  here  we  lie,  — 

Thou  and  I!" 


THE  FOUR  SEASONS. 

In  the  balmy  April  weather. 

My  love,  you  know, 

When  the  corn  began  to  grow. 
What  walks  we  took  together, 
What  sighs  we  breathed  together, 
What  vows  we  pledged  together, 

In  the  days  of  long  ago ! 

In  the  golden  summer  weather. 

My  love,  you  know. 

When  the  mowers  went  to  mow, 
What  home  we  built  together, 
What  babes  we  watched  together. 
What  plans  we  planned  together, 

While  the  skies  were  all  aglow! 

In  the  rainy  autumn  weather, 

^  My  love,  you  know, 

'  When  the  winds  began  to  blow. 
What  tears  we  shed  together, 
What  mounds  we  heaped  together. 
What  hopes  we  lost  together. 

When  we  laid  our  darlings  low  I 


TILTON. 


601 


In  the  wild  and  wintry  weather, 

My  love,  you  know. 

With   our   heads   as    white 
snow, 
What  prayers  we  pray  together. 
What  fears  we  share  together. 
What  Heaven  we  seek  together. 

For  our  time  has  come  to  go ! 


SIR  MARMADUKE'S  MUSINGS. 

I  WON  a  noble  fame ; 

But,  with  a  sudden  frown, 
The  people  snatched  my  crown, 
And,  in  the  mire,  trod  down 

My  lofty  name. 

I  bore  a  bounteous  purse ; 
And  beggars  by  the  way 
Then  blessed  me,  day  by  day ; 
But  I,  grown  poor  as  they, 

Have  now  their  curse. 

I  gained  what  men  call  friends; 
But  now  their  love  is  hate. 
And  I  have  learned,  too  late. 
How  mated  minds  unmate, 

And  friendship  ends. 

I  clasped  a  woman's  breast, — 
As  if  her  heart,  I  knew. 
Or  fancied,  would  be  true, — 
Who  proved,  alas !  she  too ! 

False  like  the  rest. 

I  now  am  all  bereft, — 

As  when  some  tower  doth  fall. 
With  battlement,  and  wall, 
And  gate,  and  bridge,  and  all, — 

And  nothing  left. 

But  I  account  it  worth 

All  pangs  of  fair  hopes  crossed  — 
All  loves  and  honors  lost, — 
To  gain  the  heavens,  at  cost 

Of  losing  earth. 

So,  lest  I  be  inclined 

To  render  ill  for  ill,— 
Henceforth  in  me  instil, 
O  God,  a  sweet  good  will 

To  all  mankind. 


RECOMPENSE. 

The  Temple  of  the  Lord  stood  open 
wide. 

And  worshippers  went  up  from  many 
lands. 

Who,  kneeling  at  the  altar,-  side  by 
side, 

Made  votive  offerings  with  uplifted 
hands. 

Their  gifts  were  gold,  and  frankin- 
cense, and  myrrh. 

Then,  with  a  lustrous  gleam  and  rap- 
turous stir, 

^Vhile  all  the  people  trembled  and 
turned  pale. 

There  flew  an  angel  to  the  altar-rail. 

Who,  with  anointed  eyes,  keen  to 
discern. 

Gazed,  noting  all  the  kneelers,  who 
they  were, 

And  what  was  each  one's  tribute  to 
the  Lord, — 

And,  gift  for  gift,  with  sudden,  swift 
return, 

Bestowed  on  every  suppliant  his  re- 
ward. 

O  mocking  recompen-se!  To  one,  a 
spear ! 

To  many,  each  a  thorn !  To  some  a 
nail! 

To  all,  a  cross !  But  unto  none  a 
crown ! 

At  last,  they  saw  the  angel  disappear. 
Then,  as  their  timid  hearts  shook  off 

their  fear, 
Some  rose  in  anger,  flung  their  treas- 
ures down, 
And  cried,  "  Such  gifts  from  Heaven 

as  these,  we  spurn ! 
They  are  too  cruel,  and  too  keen  to 

bear! 
They  are  too  grievous  for  a  human 

breast ! 
Heaven  sends  us  heartache,  misery, 

and  despair! 
We  knelt  for  blessing,  but  we  rise  un- 

blest! 
If  Heaven  so  mock  us,  we  will  cease 

to  pray!" 
They  left  the  altar,  and  they  went 

their  way ; 
But  their  blaspheming  hearts  were 

then  self-torn 


602 


TEENCH. 


Far  more  by  pride,  and  heaven-defy- 
ing scorn, 

Than  pierced  before  by  nail,  or  spear, 
or  thorn  I 

A  few  (riot  many!)  with  their  brows 

down  bent, 
Gave  thanks  for  each  sharp  gift  that 

Heaven  had  sent, — 
And  each  embraced  his  separate  pain 

and  sting, 
As  if  it  were  some  sweet  and  pleasant 

thing,— 
And  each  his  cross,  with  joyful  tears, 

did  take, 
To  bear  it  for  the  great  Cross-bearer's 

sake. 

Then  lo!  as  from  the  Temple  forth 
they  went. 

Their  bleeding  bosoms,  though  with 
anguish  rent. 

Had,  spite  of  all  their  pain !  —  a  sweet 
content ; 

For  on  each  brow,  though  not  to  mor- 
tal sight,. 

The  vanished  angel  left  a  crown  of 
light! 


THE   TWO  LADDERS. 

Benighted    in    my   pilgrimage, — 
alone, — 
And    footsore  —  (for  the  path    to 
heaven  grew  steep, ) — 
I  looked  for  Jacob's  pillow  of  a  stone, 
In  hope  of  Jacob's  vision  in  my 
sleep. 
Then,  in  my  dream,  whereof  I  quake 
to  tell, — 
Not  up  from  earth  to  heaven,  but, 
oh,  sad  sight! 
The  ladder  was  let  down  from  earth 
to  hell  !— 
Whereon,  ascending  from  the  deep 

abyss, 
Came  fiery  spirits  who,  with  dismal 
hiss. 
Made  woeful  clamor  of  their  lost  de- 
light, 
And  stung  my  eyelids  open,  till,  in 

fright, 
I  caught  my  staff,  and  at  the  dead  of 
night, 
I,  who  toward  heaven  and  peace 

had  halted  so. 
Was  lleet  of  foot  to  flee  from  hell 
and  woe! 


Richard  Chenevix  Trench. 


THUEE  SONNETS  ON  PRAYER. 

Lord,  what  a  change  within  us  one 

short  hour 
Spent  in  Thy  presence  will  prevail  to 

make  — 
Wliat  heavy  burdens  from  our  bosoms 

take, 
What  parched   grounds  refresh,   as 

with  a  shower! 
We  kneel,  and  all  around  us  seems  to 

lower ; 
We  rise,  and  all,  the  distant  and  the 

near, 
Stands  forth  in  sunny  outline,  brave 

and  clear; 
We  kneel  how  weak,  we  rise  how  full 

of  power! 
Why,  therefore,  should  we  do  our- 
selves this  wrong, 


Or  others  —  that  we  are  not  always 
strong ; 

That  we  are  ever  overborne  with 
care; 

That  we  should  ever  weak  or  heart- 
less be. 

Anxious  or  troubled,  when  with  us  is 
prayer. 

And  joy,  and  strength,  and  courage, 
are  with  Thee  ? 


A  GARDEN  so  Well  Watered  before 

morn 
Is  hotly  up,  that  not  the  swart  sun's 

blaze, 
Down  beating  with  unmitigated  rays, 
Nor  arid  winds  from  scorching  places 

borne, 


TRENCH. 


603 


Shall  quite  prevail  to  make  it  bare 

and  shorn 
Of  its  green  beauty  —  shall  not  quite 

prevail 
That  all  its  morning  freshness  shall 

exhale, 
Till  evening  and  the  evening  dews 

return  — 
A  blessing  such  as  this  our  hearts 

might  reap, 
The  freshness  of   the  garden  they 

might  share, 
Through   the  long  day  a  heavenly 

freshness  keep, 
If,  knowing  how  the  day  and  the 

day's  glare 
Must   beat   upon   them,  we  would 

largely  steep 
And  water  them  betimes  with  dews 

of  prayer. 

When  hearts  are  full  of  yearning 

tenderness. 
For  the  loved  absent,  whom  we  can 

not  reach  — 
By  deed  or  token,  gesture  or  kind 

speech. 
The  spirit's  true  affection  to  express; 
When  hearts  are  full  of  innermost 

distress,  Iby, 

And  we  are  doomed  to  stand  inactive 
Watching  the  soul's  or  body's  agony, 
Which   human  effort  helps  not  to 

make  less  — 
Then  like  a  cup  capacious  to  contain 
The  overflowings  of   the   heart,  is 

prayer: 
The  longing  of  the  soul  is  satisfied. 
The  keenest  darts  of  anguish  blunted 

are; 
And,  though  we  can  not  cease  to 

yearn  or  grieve. 
Yet  we  have  learned  in  patience  to 

abide. 


LORD,  MANY  TIMES  I  AM  A  WEAR  Y. 

Lord,   many  times   I   am   aweary 
quite 
Of   mine   own   self,  my  sin,  my 
vanity  — 
Yet  be  not  Thou,  or  I  am  lost  out- 
right,— 
Weary  of  me. 


And  hate  against  myself  I  often  bear, 
And  enter  with  myself   in  fierce 
debate : 
Take  Thou  my  part  against  myself, 
nor  share 
In  that  just  hate! 

Best  friends  might  loathe  us,  if  what 
things  perverse 
We  know  of  our  own  selves,  they 
also  knew : 
Lord,  Holy  One !  if  Thou  who  know- 
est  worse 
Shouldst  loathe  us  too ! 


[From  Lines  to  a  Friend.'] 
WEAK   CONSOLATION. 

Oh,  miserable  comfort !    Loss  is  loss, 
And  death  is  death;  and  after  all  is 

done  — 
After  the  flowers  are  scattered  on  the 

tomb. 
After  the  singing   of   the  sweetest 

dirge  — 
The  mourner,  with  his  heart  uncom- 

forted, 
Returning  to  his  solitary  home, 
Thinks  with  himself,  if  any  one  had 

aught 
Of  stronger  consolation,  he  should 

speak ; 
If  not,  'twere  best  for  ever  to  hold 

peace. 
And  not   to   mock   him  with  vain 

words  like  these. 


SADNESS  BORN  OF  BEAUTY. 

All  beautiful  things  bring  sadness, 

nor  alone 
Music,    whereof    that    wisest    poet 

spake ; * 
Because  in  us  keen  longings   they 

awake 
After  the  good  for  which  we  pine  and 

groan, 
From  which  exiled  we  make  continual 

moan, 

*  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet 
music  —  Shakespeare. 


604 


TRENCH. 


Till  once  again  we  may  our  spirits 

slake 
At  those  clear  streams,  which  man 

did  first  forsake, 
When  he  would  dig  for  fountains  of 

his  own. 
All  beauty  makes  us  sad,  yet  not  in 

vain  — 
For  who  would  be  ungracious  to  re- 
fuse. 
Or  not  to  use,  this  sadness  without 

pain. 
Whether  it  flows  upon  us  from  the 

hues 
Of  sunset,  from  the  time  of  stars 

and  dews. 
From  the  clear  sky,  or  waters  pure  of 

stain  ? 


THE  LENT  JEWELS. 

In  schools  of  wisdom  all  the  day  was 

spent : 
His  steps  at  eve  the  Rabbi  homeward 

bent, 
With    homeward    thoughts,    which 

dwelt  upon  the  wife 
And  two  fair  children  who  consoled 

his  life, 
She,  meeting  at  the  threshold,  led 

him  in, 
And  with  these  words  preventing, 

did  begin:  — 
"Ever  rejoicing  at  your  wished  re- 
turn, 
Yet  am  1  most  so  now:  for  since  this 

morn 
I  have  been   much   perplexed  and 

sorely  tried 
Upon  one  point  which  you  shall  now 

decide. 
Some  years  ago,  a   friend  into  my 

care 
Some   jewels    gave  —  rich,    precious 

gems  they  were ; 
But  having  given  them  in  my  chaise, 

this  friend 
Did  afterward  nor  come  for  them,  nor 

send, 
But  left  them  in  my  keeping  for  so 

long, 
That  now  it  almost  seems  to  me  a 

wrong 


That  he  should  suddenly  arrive  to» 
day. 

To  take  those  jewels,  which  he  left, 
away. 

What  think  you?  Shall  I  freely 
yield  them  back, 

And  with  no  murmuring  ? —  so  hence- 
forth to  lack 

Those  gems  myself,  which  I  had 
learned  to  see 

Almost  as  mine  for  ever,  mine  in 
fee." 

"  What  question  can  be  here  ? 
Your  own  true  heart 

Must  needs  advise  you  of  the  only 
part : 

That  may  be  claimed  again  which 
was  but  lent. 

And  should  be  yielded  with  no  dis- 
content. 

Nor  surely  can  we  find  herein  a 
wrong. 

That  it  was  left  us  to  enjoy  it  long." 

"  Good  is  the  word,"  she  answered; 

"  may  we  now 

And  evermore  that  it  is  good  allow ! " 

And,  rising,  to  an  inner  chamber  led, 

And  there  she  showed  him,  stretched 

upon  one  bed, 
Two  children  pale :  and  he  the  jewels 

knew. 
Which  God  had  lent  him,  and  re- 
sinned anew. 


PATIENCE. 

Be  patient !  oh,  be  patient !  Put  your 
ear  against  the  earth ; 

Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  genu 
o'  the  seed  has  birth  — 

How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  up- 
heaves its  little  way, 

Till  it  parts  the  scarcely  broken 
ground,  and  the  blade  stands 
up  in  the  day. 

Be  patient!  oh,  be  patient!  The 
germs  of  mighty  thought 

Must  have  their  silent  undergrowth,- 
must  underground  be  wrought; 


TRENCH. 


605 


But  as  sure  as  there's  a  power  that 
makes  the  grass  appear, 

Our  land  shall  be  green  with  liberty, 
the  blade-time  shall  be  here. 

Be  patient!  oh,  be  patient  —  go  and 

watch  the  wheat  ears  grow  — 
So  imperceptibly  that  ye  can  mark 

nor  change  nor  throe  — 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  till  the 

ear  is  fully  grown, 
And  then  again  day  after  day,  till  the 

ripened  field  is  brown. 

Be  patient!  oh,  be  patient!  —  though 

yet  our  hopes  are  green, 
The  harvest-fields  of  freedom  shall 

be  crowned  with  sunny  sheen. 
Be  ripening!  be  ripening!  —  mature 

your  silent  way, 
Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued 

with  fire  on  freedom's  harvest 

day! 


HAPPINESS    m    LITTLE     THINGS 
OF   THE  PRESENT. 

We  live  not  in  our  moments  or  our 

years: 
The  present  we  fling  from  us  like  the 

rind 
Of  some  sweet  future,  which  we  after 

find 
Bitter  to  taste,  or  bind  that  in  with 

fears, 
Arid  water  it  beforehand  with  om- 

tears  — 
Vain  tears  for  that  which  never  may 

arrive ; 
Meanwhile  the  joy  whereby  we  ought 

to  live. 
Neglected,  or  unheeded,  disappears. 
Wiser  it  were  to  welcome  and  make 

ours 
Whate'er  of  good,  though  small,  the 

present  brings  — 
Kind    greetings,   sunshine,   song    of 

birds,  and  flowers. 
With  a  child's  pure  delight  in  little 

things ; 
And  of  the  griefs  unborn  to  rest  se- 
cure. 
Knowing  that  mercy  ever  will  endure. 


THE  ERMINE. 

To  miiy  places  me  the  hunters  drive, 
Where  I  my  robes  of  purest  white 
must  stain; 
Then  yield  I,  nor  for  life  will  longer 
strive, 
For  spotless  death,  ere  spotted  life, 
is  gain. 


THE  BEES. 

We  light  on  fruits  and  flowers,  and 
purest  things ; 
For  if  on  carcases  or  aught  unclean. 
When  homeward  we  returned,  with 
mortal  stings 
Would  slay  us  the  keen  watchers 
round  our  queen. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Leaning  my  bosom  on  a  pointed 
thorn, 
I   bleed,    and   Vieeding   sing   my 
sweetest  strain: 
For  sweetest  songs  of  saddest  hearts 
are  *born. 
And  who  may  here  dissever  love 
and  pain  ? 


THE  SNAKE. 

Myself  I  force  some  narrowest  pas- 
sage through. 
Leaving  my  old  and  wrinkled  skin 
behind, 
And  issuing  forth  in  splendor  of  my 
new : 
Hard  entrance  into  life  all  creatures 
find. 


THE   TIGER. 

Hearing  sweet  music,  as  in  fell  de- 
spite. 
Himself  the  tiger  doth  in  pieces 
tear: 
The  melody  of  other  men's  delight 
There  are,  alas!  who  can  as  little 
bear. 


606 


TRENCH. 


THE  DIAMOND. 

I  ONLY  polished  am  in  mine  own 
dust  — 
Naiiglit  else  against  my  hardness 
will  prevail: 
And  thou,   O  man,   in    thine    ow^n 
sufferings  must 
Be  polished :  every  meaner  art  will 
fail. 


FALLING  STARS. 


heaven  exiled, 
Would  climb  its  crystal  battlements 
again; 
But  have  their  keen-eyed  watchers 
not  beguiled, 
Hurled  by  their  glittering  lances 
back  amain. 


HARMOSAN. 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Persian  throne  was  done, 
And  the  Moslem's  fiery  valor  had  the  crowning  victory  won. 

Harmosan,  the  last  and  boldest  the  invader  to  defy, 

Captive  overborne  by  numbers,  they  were  bringing  forth  to  die. 

Then  exclaimed  that  noble  captive:  "  Lo!  I  perish  in  my  thirst; 
Give  me  but  one  drink  of  water,  and  let  then  arrive  the  worst!" 

In  his  hand  he  took  the  goblet,  but  awhile  the  draught  forbore, 
Seeming  doubtfully  the  purpose  of  the  foemen  to  explore. 

Well  might  then  have  paifeed  the  bravest  —  for  around  him  angry  foes 
With  a  hedge  of  naked  weapons  did  that  lonely  man  enclose. 

' '  But  what  fear' st  thou  ? ' '  cried  the  caliph ;  —  "  is  it,  friend,  a  secret  blow  ? 
Fear  it  not !  —  om-  gallant  Moslem  no  such  treacherous  dealing  know. 

"  Thou  mayst  quench  thy  thirst  securely,  for  thou  shalt  not  die  before 
Thou  hast  drunk  that  cup  of  water —  this  reprieve  is  thine  —  no  more!"^ 

Quick  the  satrap  dashed  the  goblet  down  to  earth  with  ready  hand. 
And  the  liquid  sank  for  ever,  lost  amid  the  burning  sand. 

'•'  Thou  hast  said  that  mine  my  life  is,  till  the  water  of  that  cup 

I  have  drained;  then  bid  thy  servants  that  spilled  water  gather  up!" 

For  a  moment  stood  the  caliph  as  by  doubtful  passions  stirred  — 
Then  exclaimed:  "  For  ever  sacred  must  remain  a  monarch's  word. 


' '  Bring  another  cup,  and  straightway  to  the  noble  Persian  give : 
Drink,  I  said  before,  and  perish — now  I  bid  thee  drink  and  live  I" 


TROWBRIDGE.  607 


John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 

THE  NAME  IN  THE  BAltK. 

The  self  of  so  long  ago, 

And  the  self  I  struggle  to  know,  — 
I  sometimes  think  we  are  two, —  or  are  we  shadows  of  one  ? 

To-day  the  shadow  I  am 

Returns  in  the  sweet  summer  calm 
To  trace  where  the  earlier  shadow  flitted  awhile  in  the  sun. 

Once  more  in  the  dewy  morn 

I  came  through  the  whispering  com ; 
Cool  to  my  fevered  cheek  soft  breezy  kisses  were  blown; 

The  ribboned  and  tasselled  grass 

Leaned  over  the  flattering  glass, 
And  the  sunny  waters  trilled  the  same  low  musical  tone. 

To  the  gray  old  birch  I  came, 

Where  I  whittled  my  school-boy  name : 
The  nimble  squirrel  once  more  ran  skippingly  over  the  rail, 

The  blackbirds  down  among 

The  alders  noisily  sung. 
And  under  the  blackberry-brier  whistled  the  serious  quail. 

I  came,  remembering  well 

How  my  little  shadow  fell. 
As  I  painfully  reached  and  wrote  to  leave  to  the  future  a  sign : 

There,  stooping  a  little,  I  found 

A  half-healed,  curious  wound. 
An  ancient  scar  in  the  bark,  but  no  initial  of  mine! 

Then  the  wise  old  boughs  overhead 

Took  counsel  together,  and  said, — 
And  the  buzz  of  their  leafy  lips  like  a  murmur  of  prophecy  passed,- 

"  He  is  busily  carving  a  name 

In  the  tough  old  wrinkles  of  fame ; 
But,  cut  he  as  deep  as  he  may,  the  lines  will  close  over  at  last!" 

Sadly  I  pondered  awhile. 

Then  I  lifted  my  soul  with  a  smile, 
And  I  said  "  Not  cheerful  men,  but  anxious  children  are  we, 

Still  hurting  ourselves  with  the  knife. 

As  we  toil  at  the  letters  of  life, 
Just  marring  a  little  the  rind,  never  piercing  the  heart  of  the  tree." 

And  now  by  the  rivulet's  brink 

I  leisurely  saunter,  and  think 
How  idle  this  strife  will  appear  when  circling  ages  have  run, 

If  then  the  real  I  am 

Descend  from  the  heavenly  calm. 
To  trace  where  the  shadow  I  seem  once  flitted  awhile  in  the  sun. 


608 


TROWBRIDGE. 


THE  RESTORED  PICTURE. 

In  later  years,  veiling  its  unblest  face 

In  a  most  loathsome  place, 
The  cheap  adornment  of  a  house  of 
shame, 
It  hung,  till,  gnawed  away 
By  tooth  of  slow  decay, 
It  fell,  and  parted  from  its  moulder- 
ing frame. 

The  rotting  canvas,  faintly  smiling 
still, 
From  worldly  puff  and  frill, 
Its    ghastly  smile  of    coquetry  and 
pride. 
Crumpling  its  faded  charms 
And  yellow  jewelled  arms. 
Mere  rubbish  now,  was  rudely  cast 
aside. 

The  shadow  of  a  Genius  crossed  the 
gate: 
He,  skilled  to  re-create 
In  old  and  ruined  paintings  their  lost 
soul 
And  beauty, —  one  who  knew 
The  Master's  touch  by  true, 
Swift  instinct,  as  the  needle  knows 
the  pole, — 

Looked  on  it,  and  straightway  his 
searching  eyes 
Saw  through  its  coarse  disguise 
Of  vulgar  paint  and  grime  and  var- 
nish stain 
The  Art  that  slept  beneath. — 
A  chrysalis  in  its  sheath, 
That  waited    to   be  waked    to    life 
again. 

Upon  enduring  canvas  to  renew 

Each  wondrous  trait  and  hue, — 

This  is  the  miracle,  his  chosen  task! 
He  bears  it  to  his  house. 
And  there  from  lips  and  brows 

With  loving  touch  removes  their  alien 
mask. 

For  so  on  its  perfection  time  had  laid 

An  early  mellowing  shade; 
Then  hands  unskilled,  each  seeking 
to  impart 
Fresh  tints  to  form  and  face. 
With  some  more  modern  grace, 
Had  buried  quite  the  mighty  Master's 
Art. 


First,  razed  from  the  divine  original, 

Brow,  cheek,  and  lid,  went  all 
That    outer   shape    of    worldliness; 
when,  lo! 
Beneath  the  varnished  crust 
Of  long-embedded  dust 
A    fairer    face    appears,    emerging 
slow, — 

The  features  of  a  simple  shepherd- 
ess! 
Pure  eyes,  and  golden  tress, 
And,   lastly,    crook    in    hand.     But 
deeper  still 
The  Master's  work  lies  hid; 
And  still  through  lip  and  lid 
Works  the  Restorer  with  unsparing 
skill. 

Behold,  at  length,  in  tender  light  re- 
vealed. 
The  soul  so  long  concealed ! 
All  heavenly  faint  at  first,  then  softly 
bright, 
As  smiles  the  young-eyed  Dawn 
When  darkness  is  withdrawn, 
A    shining    angel  breaks  upon  the 
sight ! 

Restored,  perfected,  after  the  divine 

Imperishable  design, 
Lo,  now !  that  once  despised  and  out- 
cast thing 
Holds  its  true  place  among 
Tlie  fairest  pictures  hung 
In  the  high  palace  of  our  Lord  the 
King! 


MIDWINTER. 

The  speckled  sky  is  dim  with  snow. 
The  light   flakes    falter    and    fall 
slow ; 
Athwart  the  hill-top,  rapt  and  pale, 
Silently  drops  a  silvery  veil ; 
And  ail  the  valley  is  shut  in 
By  flickering  curtains  gray  and  thin. 

I  watch  the  slow  flakes  as  they  fall 
On  bank  and  brier  and  broken  wall ; 
Over  the  orchard,  waste  and  brown. 
All  noiselessly  they  settle  down. 


TROWBRIDGE. 


609 


Tipping  the  apple-boughs,  and  each 
Light  quivering  twig  of  plum  and 
peach. 

On  turf  and  curb  and  bower-roof 
The  snow  storm    spreads  its  ivory 

woof; 
It  paves  with  pearl  the  garden  walk ; 
And  lovingly  round  tattered  stalk 
And  shivering  stem  its  magic  weaves 
A  mantle  fair  as  lily-leaves. 

The  hooded  beehive,  small  and  low, 
Stands  like  a  maiden  in  the  snow; 
And  the  old  door-slab  is  half  hid 
Under  an  alabaster  lid. 

All  day  it  snows :  the  sheeted  post 
Gleams  in  the  dimness  like  a  ghost ; 
All  day  the  blasted  oak  has  stood 
A  mullled  wizard  of  the  wood ; 
Garland  and  airy  cap  adorn 
The  sumach  and  the  wayside  thorn. 
And  clustering  spangles  lodge  and 

shine 
In  the  dark  tresses  of  the  pine. 

The  ragged  bramble,  dwarfed  and  old. 
Shrinks  like  a  beggar  in  the  cold ; 
In  surplice  white  the  cedar  stands. 
And  blesses  him  with  priestly  hands. 

Still  cheerily  the  chickadee 
Singeth  to  me  on  fence  and  tree : 
But  in  my  inmost  ear  is  heard 
The  music  of  a  holier  bird; 
And  heavenly  thoughts,  as  soft  and 

white. 
As  snow-flakes,  on  my  soul  alight, 
Clothing  with  love  my  lonely  heart. 
Healing   with    peace   each    bruised 

part, 
Till  all  my  being  seems  to  be 
Transfigured  by  their  purity. 


MIDSUMMER. 

Becalmed  along  the  azure  sky. 
The  argosies  of  cloudland  lie, 
Whose  shores,  with  many  a  shining 

rift, 
Far  off  their  pearl-white  peaks  uplift. 


Through  all  the  long  midsummer- 
day 

The  meadow-sides  are  sweet  with 
hay. 

I  seek  the  coolest  sheltered  seat. 

Just  where  the  field  and  forest 
meet, — 

Where  grow  the  pine-trees  tall  and 
bland. 

The  ancient  oaks  austere  and  grand, 

And  fringy  roots  and  pebbles  fret 

The  ripples  of  the  rivulet. 

I  watch  the  mowers,  as  they  go 

Through  the  tall  grass,  a  white- 
sleeved  row. 

With  even  stroke  their  scythes  they 
swing, 

In  tune  their  merry  whetstones  ring. 

Behind  the  nimble  youngsters  run," 

And  toss  the  thick  swaths  in  the  sun. 

The  cattle  graze,  while,  waiin  and 
still, 

Slopes  the  broad  pasture,  basks  the 
hill, 

And  bright,  where  smnmer  breezes 
break. 

The  green  wheat  crinkles  like  a  lake. 

The  butterfly  and  bumble-bee 
Come  to  the  pleasant  woods  with  nie; 
Quickly  before  me  runs  the  quail, 
Her  chickens  skulk  behind  the  rail ; 
High  up  the  lone  wood-pigeon  sits. 
And  the  woodpecker  pecks  and  flits. 
Sweet    woodland    music    sinks    and 

swells. 
The  brooklet  rings  its  tinkling  bells. 
The    swarming    insects    drone    and 

hum. 
The    partridge    beats  his  throbbing 

drum, 
The  squirrel  leaps  among  the  boughs, 
And  chatters  in  his  leafy  house. 
The  oriole  flashes  by ;  and  look ! 
Into  the  mirror  of  the  brook. 
Where  the  vain  bluebird  trims  his 

coat. 
Two  tiny  feathers  fall  and  float. 

As  silently,  as  tenderly. 
The  down  of  peace  descends  on  me. 
O,  this  is  peace !  I  have  no  need 
Of  friend  to  talk,  of  book  to  read: 


610 


TROWBRIDGE. 


A  dear  Companion  here  abides ; 
Close  to  my  thrilling  heart  He  hides ; 
The  holy  silence  is  His  Voice: 
I  lie  and  listen,  and  rejoice. 


REAL  ESTATE. 

The    pleasant  gromids  are  greenly 

turfed  and  graded ; 
A    sturdy  porter  waiteth    at    the 

gate; 
The     graceful     avenues,     serenely 

shaded, 
And    curving  paths,  are  interlaced 

and  braided 
In  many  a  maze  around  my  fair 

estate. 


Here  bloom  the  early  hyacinth,  and 
clover 
And  amaranth  and  myrtle  wreathe 
the  ground ; 

The  pensive  lily  leans  her  pale  cheek 
over; 

And  hither   comes    the  bee,  light- 
hearted  rover, 

Wooing  the  sweet-breathed  flowers 
with  soothing  sound. 

Entwining,  in  their  manifold  digres- 
sions, 
Lands  of  my  neighbors,  wind  these 
peaceful  ways. 

The  masters,  coming  to  their  calm 
possessions, 

Followed  in  solemn  state  by  long  pro- 
cessions. 
Make    quiet   journeys   these    still 
summer  days. 

This  is  my  freehold !  Elms  and  f ringy 
larches. 
Maples  and  pines,  and  stately  firs 
of  Norway, 

Build  round  me  tlieir  green  pyramids 
and  arches ; 

Sweetly  the  robin  sings,  while  slowly 
marches 
The  stately  pageant  past  my  ver- 
dant doorway. 


Oh,  sweetly  sing  the  robin  and  the 

sparrow ! 
But  the    pale    tenant  very  silent 

rides. 
A  low  green  roof  receiveth  him; — so 

narrow 
His  hollow  tenement,  a  schoolboy's 

arrow 
Might  span  the  space  betwixt  its 

grassy  sides. 

The  flowers  around  him  ring  their 
wind-swung  chalices, 
A  great  bell  tolls  the  pageant's  slow 
advance. 

The  poor  alike,  and  lords  of  parks 
and  palaces. 

From  all  their  busy  schemes,  their 
fears  and  fallacies, 
Find  here  their  rest  and  sure  inher- 
itance. 

No  more  hath  Csesar  or  Sardanapa- 

lus! 
Of  all  our  wide  dominions,  soon  or 

late, 
Only    a   fathom's  space  can  aught 

avail  us ; 
This  is  the  heritage  that  shall  not 

fail  us : 
Here  man  at  last  comes  to  his  Real 

Estate. 

"  Secure  to  him  and  to  his  heirs  for- 
ever"! 
Nor  wealth  nor  want  shall  vex  his 
spirit  more. 

Treasures  of  hope  and  love  and  high 
endeavor 

Follow    tlieir    blest  proprietor;    but 
never 
Could  pomp  or  riches  pass  this  lit- 
tle door. 

Flatterers  attend  him,  but  alone  he 
enters,  — 
Shakes  off  the  dust  of  earth,  no 
more  to  roam. 

His  trial  ended,  sealed  his  soul's  in- 
dentures. 

The  wanderer,  weary  from  his  long 
adventures, 
Beholds  the  peace  of  his  eternal 
home. 


TROWBRIDGE. 


611 


Lo,  more  than  life,  Man's  great  Estate 


comprises 


While  for  the  earthly  comer  of  his 
mansion 
A  little  nook  in  sliady  Time  suffices, 
The  rainbow-pillared  heavenly  roof 
arises 
Ethereal  in  limitless  expansion! 


THE    OlD    MAN    OF    THE    MOUN- 
TAIN. 

All  round  the  lake  the  wet  woods 
shake 
From  drooping  boughs  their  show- 
ers of  pearl ; 
From  floating  skiff  to  towering  clifif 

The  rising  vapors  part  and  curl. 
The  west-wind  stirs  among  the  fu's 
High  up  the  mountain  side  emerg- 
ing; 
The  light  illumes  a  thousand  plumes 
Through    billowy    banners    round 
them  surging. 

A  glory  smites  the  craggy  heights : 

And  in  a  halo  of  the  haze. 
Flushed  with  faint  gold,  far  up,  behold 

That  mighty  face,  that  stony  gaze ! 
In  the  wild  sky  upborne  so  high 

Above  us  perishable  creatures, 
Confronting  Time  with  those  sub- 
lime. 

Impassive,  adamantine,  features. 

Thou  beaked  arid  bald  high  front, 
miscalled 
The  profile  of  a  human  face ! 
No  kin  art  thou,  O  Titan  brow. 

To  puny  man's  ephemeral  race. 
The  groaning   earth    to    thee  gave 
birth, — 
Throes    and    convulsions   of    the 
planet ; 
Lonely  uprose,  in  grand  repose. 
Those  eighty  feet  of  facial  granite. 

Here  long,  while  vast,    slow    ages 


Thine  eyes  (if  eyes  be  thine)  beheld 
But  solitudes  of  crags  and  woods. 
Where  eagles  screamed  and  pan- 
thers yelled. 


Before  the  fires  of  our  pale  sires 
In  the  first  log-built  cabin  twinkled, 

Or  red  men  came  for  fish  and  game, 
That  scalp  was  scarred,  that  face 
was  wrinkled. 

We  may  not  know  how  long  ago 
That    ancient    countenance     was 
yomig; 
Thy  sovereign  brow  was  seamed  as 
now 
When    Moses   wrote  and   Homer 
sung. 
Empires  and  states  it  antedates, 
And  wars,  and  arts,  and  crime,  and 
glory; 
In  that  dim  mom  when  man  was 
born 
Thy     head    with    centuries    was 
hoary. 

Thou  lonely  one !  nor  frost,  nor  sun, 
Nor   tempest   leaves   on   thee  its 
trace ; 
The  stormy  years  are  but  as  tears 
That    pass    from  thy  imchanging 
face. 
With  unconcern  as  grand  and  stern, 
Those  features  viewed,  which  now 
survey  us, 
A  green  world  rise  from  seas  of  ice. 
And  order  come  from  mud  and 
chaos. 

Canst  thou  not  tell  what  then  befell? 
What    forces    moved,   or   fast  or 
slow; 
How  grew  the  hills ;  what  heats,  what 
chills. 
What  strange,  dim  life,  so  long  ago? 
High-visaged    peak,   wilt    thou    not 
speak? 
One  word  for  all  oui  learned  wran- 
gle! 
What  earthquakes  shaped,  what  gla- 
ciers scraped. 
That  nose,  and  gave  the  chin  its 
angle? 

Our  pygmy  thought  to  thee  is  naught, 
Our  petty  questionings  are  vain ; 

In  its  great  trance  thy  countenance 
Knows    not  compassion  nor   dis- 
dain. 


612 


TROWBBIBGE. 


With  far-off  hum  we  go  and  come, 
The  gay,  the  grave,  the  busy-idle ; 

And  all  things  done,  to  thee  are  one. 
Alike  the  burial  and  the  bridal. 

Thy  permanence,  long  ages  hence, 
Will  mock  the    pride  of  mortals 
still. 
Returning  springs,   with  songs  and 
wings  I  fill ; 

And  fragrance,  shall  these  valleys 
The  free  winds  blow,  fall  rain  or 
snow, 
The  mountains  brim  their  crystal 
breakers ; 
Still  come  and  go,  still  ebb  and  flow. 
The  smnmer  tides  of  pleasure-seek- 
ers. 

The  da^vns  shall  gild  the  peaks  where 
build 
The  eagles,  many  a  future  pair; 
The  gray  scud  lag  on  wood  and  crag, 

Dissolving  in  the  purple  air; 
The    sunlight    gleam    on    lake   and 
stream. 
Boughs  wave,   storms  break,  and 
still  at  even 
All  glorious  hues  the  world  suffuse. 
Heaven  mantle  earth,  earth  melt  in 
heaven ! 

Nations    shall   pass    like    summer's 
grass. 
And  times  unborn  grow  old  and 
change ; 
New  governments  and  great  events 
Shall  rise,  and  science  new  and 
strange ; 
Yet  will  thy  gaze  confront  the  days 

With  its  eternal  calm  and  patience, 

The  evening  red  still  light  thy  head. 

Above  thee  burn  the  constellations. 

0  silent  speech,  that  well  can  teach 
The  little  worth  of  words  or  fame ! 

1  go  my  way,  but  thou  wilt  stay 

While    future    millions    pass    the 
same : 
But  what  is  this  I  seem  to  miss  ? 

Those  features  fall  into  confusion ! 
A    further    pace  —  where   was    that 
face  ? 
The  veriest  fugitive  illusion! 


Gray  eidolon !  so  quickly  gone, 
When  eyes  that  make  thee  onward 
move; 
Whose  vast  jJretence  of  permanence 

A  little  progress  can  disprove ! 
Like  some  huge  wraith  of  human 
faith 
That  to  the  mind  takes  form  and 
measure ; 
Grim  monolith  of  creed  or  myth. 
Outlined  against  the  eternal  azure ! 

O  Titan,  how  dislimned  art  thou! 

A  withered  cliff  is  all  we  see; 
That  giant  nose,  that  grand  repose. 

Have  in  a  moment  ceased  to  be ; 
Or  still  depend  on  lines  that  blend. 

On  merging  shapes,  and  sight,  and 
distance. 
And  in  the  mind  alone  can  find 

Imaginaiy  brief  existence ! 


STANZAS  FROM  "  SERVICE:' 

Well  might  red  shame  my  cheek 
consume ! 

0  service  slighted ! 

0  Bride  of  Paradise,  to  whom 

1  long  was  plighted ! 

Do  I  with  burning  lips  profess 

To  serve  thee  wholly,     ' 
Yet  labor  less  for  blessedness 

Than  fools  for  folly  ? 

The  wary  worldling  spread  his  toils 

Whilst  I  was  sleepins:; 
The  wakeful  miser  locked  his  spoils, 

Keen  vigils  keepinsc: 

1  loosed  the  latches  of  my  soul 
To  pleading  Pleasure, 

Who  stayed  one  little  hour,  and  stole 
My  heavenly  treasure. 

A  friend  for  friend's  sake  will  endure 

Shai-p  provocations ; 
And  knaves  are  cunning  to  secure, 

By  cringing  patience, 
And  smiles  upon  a  smarting  cheek, 

Some  dear  advantage, — 
Swathing  their  grievances  in  meek 

Submission's  bandage. 


TROWBRIDGE, 


613 


Yet  for  thy  sake  I  will  not  take 

One  drop  of  trial, 
But  raise  rebellious  hands  to  break 

The  bitter  vial. 
At  hardship's  surly-visaged  churl 

My  spirit  sallies ; 
And  melts,  O  Peace!   thy  priceless 
pearl 

In  passion's  chalice. 

Yet  never  quite,  in  darkest  night, 

Was  I  forsaken : 
Down  trickles  still  some  starry  rill 

My  heart  to  waken. 


O  Love  Divine !  could  I  resign 

This  changeful  spirit 
To  walk  thy  ways,  what  wealth  of 
grace 

Might  I  inherit! 

If  one  poor  flower  of  thanks  to  thee 

Be  truly  given, 
All  night  thou  snowest  down  to  me 

Lilies  of  heaven ! 
One  task  of  human  love  fulfilled 

Thy  glimpses  tender, 
My  days  of  lonely  labor  gild, 

\yith  gleams  of  splendor! 


MY  COMRADE  AND  I, 

We  two  have  grown  up  so  divinely  together, 

Flower  within  flower  from  seed  within  seed, 
The  sagest  philosopher  cannot  say  whether 

His  being  or  mine  was  first  called  and  decreed. 
In  the  life  before  birth,  by  inscrutable  ties, 

We  were  linked  each  to  each;  I  am  bound  up  In  him; 
He  sickens,  I  languish;  without  me,  he  dies; 

I  am  life  of  his  life,  he  is  limb  of  my  limb. 

Twin  babes  from  one  cradle,  I  tottered  about  with  him. 

Chased  the  bright  butterflies,  singing,  a  boy  with  him; 
Still  as  a  man  I  am  borne  in  and  out  with  him, 

Sup  with  him,  sleep  with  him,  suffer,  enjoy  with  him. 
Faithful  companion,  me  long  he  has  carried 

Unseen  in  his  bosom,  a  lamp  to  his  feet; 
More  near  than  a  bridegroom,  to  him  I  am  married, 

As  light  in  the  sunbeam  is  wedded  to  heat. 


If  my  beam  be  withdrawn  he  is  senseless  and  blind; 

I  am  sight  to  his  vision,  I  hear  with  his  ears ; 
His  the  marvellous  brain,  I  the  masterful  mind; 

I  laugh  with  his  laughter,  and  weep  with  his  tears 
So  well  that  the  ignorant  deem  us  but  one: 

They  see  but  one  shape  and  they  name  us  one  name, 
O  pliant  accomplice!  what  deeds  we  have  done, 

Thus  banded  together  for  glory  or  shame. 

When  evil  waylays  us,  and  passion  surprises, 

And  we  are  too  feeble  to  strive  or  to  fly, 
When  hunger  compels  or  when  pleasure  entices, 

Which  most  is  the  sinner,  my  comrade  or  I  ? 
And  when  over  perils  and  pains  and  temptations 

I  triumph,  whei^  still  I  should  falter  and  faint. 
But  for  him,  iron-nerved  for  heroical  patience, 

Whose  then  is  the  virtue,  and  which  is  the  saint  f 


614  TUPPER. 


Am  I  the  one  sinner  ?  of  honors  sole  claimant 

For  actions  which  only  we  two  can  perform  ? 
Am  I  the  true  creature,  and  thou  but  the  raiment  ? 

Thou  magical  mantle,  all  vital  and  warm, 
Wrapped  about  me,  a  screen  from  the  rough  winds  of  Time, 

Of  texture  so  flexile  to  feature  and  gesture ! 
Can  ever  I  part  from  thee  ?    Is  there  a  clime 

Where  Life  needeth  not  this  terrestrial  vesture  ? 

When  comes  the  sad  summons  to  sever  the  sweet 

Subtle  tie  that  unites  us,  and  tremulous,  fearful. 
I  feel  thy  loosed  fetters  depart  from  my  feet; 

When  friends  gather  round  us,  pale-visaged  and  tearful, 
Be  weep  and  bewail  thee,  thou  fair  earthly  prison ! 

And  kiss  thy  cold  doors,  for  thy  inmate  mistaken; 
Their  eyes  seeing  not  the  freed  captive,  arisen 

From  thy  trammels  unclasped  and  thy  shackles  downshaken; 

Oh,  then  shall  I  linger,  reluctant  to  break 
The  dear  sensitive  chains  that  about  me  have  grown  ? 

And  all  this  bright  world,  can  I  bear  to  forsake 
Its  embosoming  beauty  and  love,  and  alone 

Journey  on  to  I  know  not  what  regions  untried  ? 
Exists  there,  beyond  the  dim  cloud-rack  of  death, 

Such  life  as  enchants  us  ?    O  skies  arched  and  wide  I 

0  delicate  senses !  O  exquisite  breath ! 

Ah,  tenderly,  tenderly  over  thee  hovering, 

1  shall  look  down  on  thee,  empty  and  cloven, 
Pale  mould  of  my  being!  —  thou  visible  covering 

Wherefrom  my  invisible  raiment  is  woven. 
Though  sad  be  the  passage,  nor  pain  shall  appall  me, 

Nor  parting,  assured,  wheresoever  I  range 
The  glad  fields  of  existence  that  naught  can  befall  me 

That  is  not  still  beautiful,  blessed  and  strange. 


Martin  Farquhar  Tupper* 

[From  Self-Acquaintance.] 
ILL-CHOSEN  PURSUITS. 

The  blind  at  an  easel,  the  palsied  with  a  graver,  the  halt  making  for  the  goal. 
The  deaf  ear  tuning  psaltery,  the  stammerer  discoursmg  eloquence,  — 
What  wonder  if  all  fail  ?  the  shaft  flieth  wide  of  the  mark, 
Alike  if  itself  be  crooked,  or  the  vjow  be  strung  awry;  .,    ,    . 

And  the  mind  which  were  excellent  in  one  way,  but  foolishly  toileth  m 

another, 
Wliat  is  it  but  an  ill-strung  bow,  and  its  aim  a  crooked  arrow? 
By  knowledge  of  self,  thou  provest  thy  powers ;  put  not  the  racer  to  the 

plough, 
Nor  goad  the  toilsome  ox  to  wager  his  slowness  ^ith  the  fleet. 


The  extracts  from  this  author  are  from  Proverbial  Philosophy. 


TUPPER.  616 


[From  Fame.'] 
THE  DIGNITY  AND  PATIENCE  OF  GENIUS. 

A  GREAT  mind  is  an  altar  on  a  hill;  should  the  priest  descend  from  his 

altitude 
To  canvass  offerings  and  worship  from  dwellers  on  the  plain  ? 
Rather  with  majestic  perseverance,  will  he  minister  in  solitary  grandeur, 
Confident  the  time  will  come  when  pilgrims  shall  be  flocking  to  the  shrine. 
For  fame  is  the  birthright  of  genius ;  and  he  recketh  not  how  long  it  be 

delayed : 
The  heir  need  not  hasten  to  his  heritage,  when  he  knoweth  that  his  tenure 

is  eternal. 
The  careless  poet  of  Avon,  was  he  troubled  for  his  fame  ? 
Or  the  deep-mouthed  chronicler  of  Paradise,  heeded  he  the  suffrage  of  his 

equals  ? 
Mceonides  took  no  thought,  committing  all  his  honors  to  the  future. 
And  Flaccus,  standing  on  his  watch-tower,  spied  the  praise  of  ages. 


[From  Ti-uth  in  Things  False.] 
SPIRITUAL  FEELERS.    • 

The  soul  hath  its  feelers,  cobwebs  floating  on  the  wind, 
That  catch  events  in  their  approach  with  sure  and  apt  presentiment. 
So  that  some  halo  of  attraction  heraldeth  a  coming  friend. 
Investing,  in  his  likeness,  the  stranger  that  passed  on  before ; 
And  while  the  word  is  in  thy  mouth,  behold  thy  word  fulfilled, 
And  he  of  whom  we  spake  can  answer  for  himSelf. 


[From  Writing.] 
LETTERS. 

Their  preciousness  in  absence  is  proved  by  the  desire  of  their  presence: 

When  the  despairing  lover  waiteth  day  after  day. 

Looking  for  a  word  in  reply,  one  word  writ  by  that  hand. 

And  cursing  bitterly  the  morn  ushered  in  by  blank  disappointment: 

Or  when  the  long-looked-for  answer  argueth  a  cooling  friend, 

And  the  mind  is  plied  suspiciously  with  dark  inexplicable  doubts, 

While  thy  wounded  heart  counteth  its  imaginary  scars, 

And  thou  art  the  innocent  and  injured,  that  friend  the  capricious  and  in 

fault: 
Or  when  the  earnest  petition,  that  craveth  for  thy  needs 
Unheeded,  yea,  unopened,  tortureth  with  starving  delay: 
Or  when  the  silence  of  a  son,  who  would  have  written  of  his  welfare, 
Racketh  a  father's  bosom  with  sharp-cutting  fears: 
For  a  letter,  timely  writ,  is  a  rivet  to  the  chain  of  affection; 
And  a  letter,  untimely  delayed,  is  as  rust  to  the  solder. 
The  pen,  flowing  in  love,  or  dipped  black  in  hate. 
Or  tipped  with  delicate  courtesies,  or  harshly  edged  with  censure, 
Hath  quickened  more  good  than  the  sun,  more  evil  than  the  sword. 
More  joy  than  woman's  smile,  more  woe  than  frowning  fortune; 
And  shouldst  thou  ask  my  judgment  of  that  which  hath  most  profit  in  the 

world, 
For  answer  take  thou  this.  The  prudent  penning  of  a  letter. 


616  TUPPER. 


[From  Beauty.] 

THE   CONQUEROR. 

Thou  mightier  than  Manoah's  son,  whence  is  thy  great  strength, 
And  wherein  the  secret  of  thy  craft,  O  charmer  charming  wisely  ?  — 

Ajax  may  rout  a  phalanx,  but  beauty  shall  enslave  him  single-handed  ; 
Pericles  ruled  Athens,  yet  is  he  the  servant  of  Aspasia: 
Light  were  the  labor,  and  often-told  the  tale,  to  count  the  victories  of 
beauty, — 

Learning  sitteth  at  her  feet,  and  Idleness  laboreth  to  please  her; 
Folly  hath  flung  aside  his  bells,  and  leaden  Dulness  gloweth; 
Prudence  is  rash  in  her  defence ;  Frugality  filleth  her  with  riches ; 
Despair  came  to  her  for  counsel;  and  Bereavement  was  glad  when  she 

consoled ; 
Justice  putteth  up  his  sword  at  the  tear  of  supplicating  beauty 
And  Mercy,  with  indulgent  haste,  hath  pardoned  beauty's  sin. 
For  beauty  is  the  substitute  for  all  things,  satisfying  every  absence, 
The  rich  delirious  cup,  to  make  all  else  forgotten. 


[From  Beauty.] 
MENTAL  SUPREMACY. 

There  is  a  beauty  of  the  reason :  grandly  independent  of  externals. 

It  looketh  from  the  windows  of  the  house,  shining  in  the  man  triumphant. 

I  have  seen  the  broad  blank  face  of  some  misshapen  dwarf 

Lit  on  a  sudden  as  with  glory,  the  brilliant  light  of  mind : 

Who  then  imagined  him  deformed  ?  intelligence  is  blazing  on  his  forehead. 

There  is  empire  in  his  eye,  and  sweetness  on  his  lip,  and  "his  brown  cheek 

glittereth  with  beauty: 
And  I  have  known  some  Nireus  of  the  camp,  a  varnished  paragon  of 

chamberers. 
Fine,  elegant,  and  shapely,  moulded  as  the  masterpiece  of  Phidias, — 
Such  an  one,  with  intellects  abased,  have  I  noted  crouching  to  the  dwarf, 
Whilst  his  lovers  scorn  the  fool  whose  beauty  hath  departed ! 


[From  Beauty.] 

THE  SOURCE  OF  MAN'S   RULING  PASSION. 

Verily  the  fancy  may  be  false,  yet  hath  it  met  me  in  my  musings, 

(As  expounding  the  pleasantness  of  pleasure,  but  no  ways  extenuating 

license,) 
That  even  those  yearnings  after  beauty,  in  wayward  wanton  youth, 
When  guileless  of  ulterior  end,  it  craveth  but  to  look  upon  the  lovely, 
Seem  like  struggles  of  the  soul,  dimly  remembering  pre-existence. 
And  feeling  in  its  blindness  for  a  long-lost  god  to  satisfy  its  longing; 

God,  the  undiluted  good,  is  root  and  stock  of  beauty. 
And  every  child  of  reason  drew  his  essence  from  that  stem. 
Therefore,  it  is  of  intuition,  an  innate  hankering  for  home. 


TUPPER.  617 


A  sweet  returning  to  the  well,  from  which  our  spirit  flowed, 
That  we,  unconscious  of  a  cause,  should  bask  these  darkened  souls 
In  some  poor  relics  of  the  light  that  blazed  in  primal  beauty. 

Only,  being  burdened  with  the  body,  spiritual  appetite  is  warped, 

And  sensual  man,  with  taste  corrupted,  drinketh  of  pollutions: 

Impulse  is  left,  but  indiscriminate;  his  hunger  feasteth  upon  carrion; 

His  natural  love  of  beauty  dotetli  over  beauty  in  decay. 

He  still  thirsteth  for  the  beautiful ;  but  his  delicate  ideal  hath  grown  gross, 

And  the  very  sense  of  thirst  hath  been  fevered  from  affection  into  passion. 


[From  Indirect  Influences.'] 

ARGUMENT. 

The  weakness  of  accident  is  strong,  where  the  strength  of  design  is  weakj 
And  a  casual  analogy  convinceth,  when  a  mind  beareth  not  argument. 
Will  not  a  man  listen  ?  be  silent;  and  prove  thy  maxim  by  example: 
Never  fear,  thou  losest  not  thy  hold,  though  thy  mouth  doth  not  render  a 

reason. 
Contend  not  in  wisdom  with  a  fool,  for  thy  sense  maketh  much  of  his 

conceit. 
And  some  errors  never  would  have  thriven,  had  it  not  been  for  learned 

refutation ; 
Yea,  much  evil  hath  been  caused  by  an  honest  wrestler  for  truth. 
And  much  of  unconscious  good,  by  the  man  that  hated  wisdom : 
For  the  intellect  judgeth  closely,  and  if  thou  overstep  thy  argument. 
Or  seem  not  consistent  with  thyself,  or  fail  in  thy  direct  purpose, 
The  mind  that  went  along  with  thee,  shall  stop  and  return  without  thee, 
And  thou  shalt  have  raised  a  foe,  where  thou  mightest  have  won  a  friend. 


{From  Indirect  Influences.'] 
THE  POWER   OF  SUGGESTION. 

Hints,  shrewdly  strown,  mightily  disturb  the  spirit. 

Where  a  barefaced  accusation  would  be  too  ridiculous  for  calumny: 

The  sly  suggestion  touches  nerves,  and  nerves  contract  the  fronds, 

And  the  sensitive  mimosa  of  affection  trembleth  to  its  root; 

And  friendships,  the  growth  of  half  a  century,  those  oaks  that  laugh  at 

storms,  1  ,     ,  J 

Have  been  cankered  in  a  night  by  a  worm,  even  as  the  prophet  s  gourd. 
Hast  thou  loved,  and  not  known  jealousy  ?  for  a  sidelong  look 
Can  please  or  pain  thy  heart  more  than  the  multitude  of  proofs: 
Hast  thou  hated,  and  not  learned  that  thy  silent  scorn 
Doth  deeper  aggravate  thy  foe  than  loud-cursing  malice  ?  — 

Thinkest  thou  the  thousand  eyes  that  shine  with  rapture  on  a  ruin, 
Would  have  looked  with  half  their  wonder  on  the  perfect  pile  ? 
And  wherefore  not  — but  that  light  hints,  suggesting  unseen  beauties 
Fill  the  complacent  gazer  with  self -grown  conceits  ? 


618  TUPPER. 

And  so,  the  rapid  sketch  winneth  more  praise  to  the  painter, 

Than  the  consummate  work  elaborated  on  his  easel : 

And  so,  the  Helvetic  lion  caverned  in  the  living  rock 

Hath  more  of  majesty  and  force,  than  if  upon  a  marble  pedestal. 

.     .     .     .     What  hath  charmed  thine  ear  in  music  ? 

Is  it  the  labored  theme,  the  curious  fugue  or  cento,  — 

Nor  rather  the  sparkles  of  intelligence  flashing  from  some  strange  note 

Or  the  soft  melody  of  sounds  far  sweeter  for  simplicity  ? 

.     .     .     .     What  hath  filled  thy  mind  in  reading  ? 

Is  it  the  volume  of  detail,  where  all  is  orderly  set  down, 

And  they  that  read  may  run,  nor  need  to  stop  and  think; 

The  book  carefully  accurate,  that  counteth  thee  no  better  than  a  fool, 

Gorging  the  passive  mind  with  annotated  notes;  — 

Nor'rather  the  half-suggested  thoughts,  the  riddles  thou  mayest  solve ; 

The  light  analogy,  or  deep  allusion,  trusted  to  thy  learning, 

The  confidence  implied  in  thy  skill  to  unravel  meaning  mysteries  ? 

For  ideas  are  ofttimes  shy  of  the  close  furniture  of  words. 

And  thought,  wherein  only  is  power,  may  be  best  conveyed  by  a  suggestion. 

The  flash  that  lighteth  up  a  valley,  amid  the  dark  midnight  of  a  storm, 

Coineth  the  mind  with  that  scene  sharper  than  fifty  summers. 


{From  Names.'] 
ILL-CHRIS  TENED. 

Who  w^ould  call  the  tench  a  whale,  or  style  a  torch,  Orion  ? 

Yet  many  a  silly  parent  hath  dealt  likewise  with  his  nursling. 

Give  thy  child  a  fit  distinguishment,  making  him  sole  tenant  of  a  name, 

For  it  were  sore  hindrance  to  hold  it  in  common  with  a  hundred; 

In  the  Babel  of  confused  identities  fame  is  little  feasible, 

The  felon  shall  detract  from  the  philanthropist,  and  the  sage  share  honors 

with  the  simple: 
Still,  in  thy  title  of  distinguishment,  fall  not  into  arrogant  assumption. 
Steering  from  caprice  and  affectations ;  and  for  all  thou  doest  have  a  reason. 
He  that  is  ambitious  for  his  son,  should  give  him  untried  names. 
For  those  that  have  served  other  men,  haply  may  injure  by  their  evils ; 
Or  otherwise  may  hinder  by  their  glories ;  therefore  set  him  by  himself, 
To  win  for  his  individual  name  some  clear  specific  praise. 
There  were  nine  Homers,  all  goodly  sons  of  song;  but  where-  is  any  record 

of  the  eight  ? 
One  grew  to  fame,  an  Aaron's  rod,  and  swallowed  up  his  brethren. 
Who  knoweth  ?  more  distinctly  titled,  those  dead  eight  had  lived ; 

Art  thou  named  of  a  family,  the  same  in  successive  generations  ? 

It  is  open  to  thee  still  to  earn  for  epithets,  such  an  one,  the  good  or  great. 

Art  thou  named  foolishly  ?  show  that  thou  art  wiser  than  thy  fathers, 

Live  to  shame  their  vanity  or  sin  by  dutiful  devotion  to  thy  sphere. 

Art  thou  named  discreetly  ?  it  is  well,  the  course  is  free; 

No  competitor  shall  claim  thy  colors,  neither  fix  his  faults  upon  thee: 

Hasten  to  the  goal  of  fame  between  the  posts  of  duty, 

And  win  a  blessing  from  the  world,  that  men  may  love  thy  name; 


TUPPER.  619 


[From  Indirect  Influences.^ 
THE  FORCE  OF  TRIFLES. 

A  SENTENCE  hath  formed  a  character,  and  a  character  subdued  a  kingdom ; 
A  picture  hath  ruined  souls,  or  raised  them  to  commerce  with  the  skies. 

Planets  govern  not  the  soul,  nor  guide  the  destinies  of  man. 

But  trifles,  lighter  than  straws,  are  levers  in  the  building  up  of  character. 


[From  Neglect.'] 
TO  MURMURERS. 

Yet  once  more,  griever  at  Neglect,  hear  me  to  thy  comfort,  or  rebuke; 
For,  after  all  thy  just  complaint,  the  world  is  full  of  love. 

For  human  benevolence  is  large,  though  many  matters  dwarf  it. 
Prudence,  ignorance,  imposture,  and  the  straitenings  of  circumstance  and 

time. 
And  if  to  the  body,  so  to  the  mind,  the  mass  of  men  are  generous: 
Their  estimate  who  know  us  best,  is  seldom  seen  to  err : 
Be  sure  the  fault  is  thine,  as  pride,  or  shallowness,  or  vanity. 
If  all  around  thee,  good  and  bad,  neglect  thy  seeming  merit. 

Therefore  examine  thy  state,  O  self-accounted  martyr  of  Neglect, 
It  may  be,  thy  merit  is  a  cubit,  and  thy  measure  thereof  a  furlong: 
But  grant  it  greater  than  thy  thoughts,  and  grant  that  men  thy  fellows 
For  pleasure,  business,  or  interest,  misuse,  forget,  neglect  thee,  — 
Still  be  thou  conqueror  in  this,  the  consciousness  of  high  deservings; 
Let  it  suffice  thee  to  be  worthy ;  faint  not  thou  for  praise ; 
For  that  thou  art,  be  grateful;  go  humbly  even  in  thy  confidence; 
And  set  thy  foot  on  the  neck  of  an  enemy  so  harmless  as  Neglect. 


[From  Mem/yry.l 
HINTS  OF  PRE-EXISTENCE. 

Were  I  at  Petra,  could  I  not  declare,  My  soul  hath  been  here  before  me  ? 
Am  I  strange  to  the  columned  halls,  the  calm  dead  gi-andeur  of  Palmyra  ? 
Know  I  not  thy  mount,  O  Carmel!    Have  I  not  voyaged  on  the  Danube 
Nor  seen  the  glare  of  Arctic  snows,  —  nor  the  black  tents  of  the  Tartar  ? 
Is  it  then  a  dream,  that  I  remember  the  faces  of  them  of  old  ? 

Be  ye  my  judges,  imaginative  minds,  full-fledged  to  soar  into  the  sun, 
Whose  grosser  natural  thoughts  the  chemistry  of  wisdom  hath  sublimed. 
Have  ye  not  confessed  to  a  feeling,  a  consciousness,  strange  and  vague. 
That  ye  have  gone  this  way  before,  and  walk  again  your  daily  life, 
Tracking  an  old  routine,  and  on  some  foreign  strand. 
Where  bodily  ye  have  never  stood,  finding  your  own  footsteps  ? 
Hath  not  at  times  some  recent  friend  looked  out  an  old  familiar. 
Some  newest  circumstance  or  place  teemed  as  with  ancient  memories  ? 
A  startling  sudden  flash  lighteth  up  all  for  an  instant, 
And  then  it  is  quenched,  as  in  darkness,  and  leaveth  the  cold  spirit 
trembling. 


620  TUPPER. 


[From  Neglect.] 
LATE    VALUATION. 

Good  men  are  the  health  of  the  world,  valued  only  when  it  perisheth; 

Like  water,  light,  and  air,  all  precious  in  their  absence. 

Who  hath  considered  the  blessing  of  his  breath,  till  the  poison  of  an  asthma 

struck  him  ? 
Who  hath  regarded  the  just  pulses  of  his  heart,  till  spasm  or  paralysis 

have  stopped  them  ? 
Even  thus,  an  unobserved  routine  of  daily  gi*ace  and  wisdom. 
When  no  more  here,  had  worship  of  a  world,  whose  penitence  atoned  for 

its  neglect. 


[From  Mystery.'] 
FOREKNOWLEDGE  UNDESIRABLE. 

For  mysteiy  is  man's  life;  we  wake  to  the  whisperings  of  novelty: 
And  what  though  we  lie  down  disappointed  ?  we  sleep,  to  wake  in  hope. 
The  letter,  or  the  news,  the  chances  and  the  changes,  matters  that  may 

happen. 
Sweeten  or  embitter  daily  life  with  the  honey-gall  of  mystery. 
For  we  walk  blindfold,  — and  a  minute  may  be  much,  —  a  step  may  reach 

the  precipice ; 
What  earthly  loss,  what  heavenly  gain,  may  not  this  day  produce  ? 
Levelled  of  Alps  and  Andes,  without  its  valleys  and  ravines. 
How  dull  the  face  of  earth,  unfeatured  of  both  beauty  and  sublimity: 
And  so,  shorn  of  mystery,  beggared  in  its  hopes  and  fears. 
How  flat  the  prospect  of  existence,  mapped  by  intuitive  foreknowledge  ? 


[From  To-Day.] 

LIFff. 

A  man's  life  is  a  tower,  with  a  staircase  of  many  steps, 

That,  as  he  toileth  upward,  crumble  successively  behind  him : 

No  going  back,  the  past  is  an  abyss;  no  stopping,  for  the  present  perisheth; 

But  ever  hasting  on,  precarious  on  the  foothold  of  To-day. 


[From  To-Morroio.] 
THE   WORD  OF  BANE  AND  BLESSING. 

Often,  the  painful  present  is  comforted  by  flattering  the  future. 

And  kind  To-morrow  beareth  half  the  burdens  of  To-day. 

To-morrow,  whispereth  weakness;  and  To-morrow  findeth  him  the  weaker. 

To-morrow,  promiseth  conscience;  and  behold,  no  to-day  for  a  fulfilment. 

O  name  of  happy  omen  unto  youth,  O  bitter  word  of  terror  to  the  dotard, 

Goal  of  folly's  lazy  wish,  and  sorrow's  ever-coming  friend, 

Fraud's  loophole,  —  caution's  hint,  — and  trap  to  catch  the  honest,  — 

Thou  wealth  to  many  poor,  disgrace  to  many  noble, 

Thou  hope  and  fear,  thou  weal  and  woe,  thou  remedy,  thou  ruin. 

How  thickly  swarms  of  thought  are  clustering  round  To-morrow. 


VAUGHAN, 


621 


[From  Ta-Morrow.] 
PROCRASTINATIOJSr. 

Lo,  it  is  the  even  of  To-day,  —a  day  so  lately  a  To-morrow; 

Where  are  those  high  resolves,  those  hopes  of  yesternight  ? 

O  faint  heart,  still  shall  thy  whisper  be,  To-morrow, 

And  must  the  growing  avalanche  of  sin  roll  down  that  easy  slope  ? 

Alas,  it  is  ponderous,  and  moving  on  in  might,  that  a  Sisyphus  mayjiot 

stop  it ; 
But  haste  thee  with  the  lever  of  a  prayer,  and  stem  its  strength  To-day. 


Henry  Vaughan. 


THE  SEED   GROWING    SECRETLY. 

Dear,  secret  greenness !  nurst  below ! 
Tempests  and  winds  and  winter- 
nights 
Yex  not,  that  but  One  sees  thee  grow. 
That  One  made  all   these   lesser 
lights. 

If  those  bright  joys  He  singly  sheds 

On  thee,  were  all  met  in  one  crown. 

Both  sun  and  stars  would  hide  their 

heads ; 

And  moons,  though  full,  would  get 

them  down. 

Let  glory  be  their  bait  whose  minds 

Are  all  too  high  for  a  low  cell : 
Though    hawks    can    prey    through 
storms  and  winds. 
The  poor  bee  in  her  hive  must 
dwell. 

Glory,  the  crowd's  cheap  tinsel,  still 
To  what  most   takes   them  is    a 
drudge ; 

And  they  too  oft  iake  good  for  ill, 
And  thriving  vice  for  virtue  judge. 

What  needs  a  conscience  calm  and 
bright 
Within  itself  an  outward  test  ? 
Who  breaks  his  glass  to  take  more 
light. 
Makes  way  for  storms  into  his  rest. 


Then  bless  thy  secret  growth,  nor 
catch 
At  noise,   but  thrive  unseen  and 
dumb ; 
Keep  clean,  bear  fruit,  earn  life,  and 
watch, 
Till  the  white-winged  reapers  come ! 


THEY  ARE  ALL  GONE. 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of 
light. 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright. 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy 
breast. 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this 
hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory. 
Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my 
days; 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull 
and  hoary. 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  hope!  and  high  humility! 

High  as  the  heavens  above ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have 
shewed  them  me 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 


622 


VAUOHAN, 


Dear,  beauteous  death;  the  jewel  of 
the  just! 
Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy 
dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark! 

He  that  hath   found    some  fledged 
•     bird's  nest  may  know 
At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown ; 

But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings 
in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter 
dreams, 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth 
sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend 
our  wonted  themes. 
And  into  glory  peep. 


FROM  "CHILDHOOD." 

De  AE,  harmless  age !  the  short,  swift 
span, 

Where  Aveeping  virtue  parts  with 
man ; 

Where  love  without  lust  dwells,  and 
bends 

What  way  we  please  without  self- 
ends. 

An  age  of  mysteries !  which  Jie 
Must'live  twice  that  would  God's  face 

see; 
Which  angels  guard,  and  with  it  play, 
Angels !  which  foul  men  drive  away. 


PEACE. 


My  soul,  there  is  a  country 

Afar  beyond  the  stars. 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentry 

All  skilful  in  the  wars. 
There,  above  noise  and  danger. 

Sweet    Peace   sits,    crowned  with 
smiles, 
And  one  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 


He  is  thy  gracious  friend, 

And  (O  my  soul,  awake) 
Did  in  pure  love  descend, 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 
K  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  peace, 
The  rose  that  cannot  wither. 

The  fortress,  and  thy  ease. 
Leave,  then,  thy  foolish  ranges ; 

For  none  can  thee  secure 
But  One,  who  never  changes. 

Thy  God,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure. 


THE  PURSUIT. 

Lord  !  what  a  busy,  restless  thing, 

Hast  thou  made  man ! 
Each  day  and  horn*  he  is  on  wing. 

Rests  not  a  span. 
Then  having  lost  the  sun  and  light, 

By  clouds  surprised. 
He  keeps  a  commerce  in  the  night 

With  air  disguised. 
Hadst  thou  given  to  this  active  dust 

A  state  untired. 
The  lost  son  had  not  left  the  husk, 

^ov  home  desir'd. 
That  was  thy  secret,  and  it  is 

Thy  mercy  too ; 
For  when  all  fails  to  bring  to  bliss, 

Then  this  must  do. 
Ah,  Lord !  and  what  a  purchase  will 

that  be, 
To  take  us  sick,  that  sound  would  not 
take  thee ! 


FROM  ''ST.  MARY  MAGDALEN." 

Cheap,  mighty  art !  her  art  of  love, 
Who  loved  much,  and  much  more 

could  move ; 
Her  art !  whose  memory  must  last 
Till  truth  through  all  the  world  be 

past; 
Till  his  abused,  despised  flame 
Return  to  heaven  from  whence   it 

came, 
And  send  a  fire    down,   that    shall 

bring 
Destruction  on  his  ruddy  wing. 


VAUGHAN, 


623 


fler   art!    whose   pensive,  weeping 

eyes 
Were  once  sin's  loose  and  tempting 

spies ; 
But  now  are  fixed  stars,  whose  light 
Helps  such  dark  stragglers  to  their 

sight. 

Self-boasting  Pharisee !  how  blind 
A  judge  wert  thou,  and  how  unkind  I 
It  was  impossible,  that  thou, 
Who  wert  all  false,  should' st  true 

grief  know. 
Is't  just  to  judge  her  faithful  tears 
By  that  foul  rheum   thy  false  eye 

wears  ? 
"  This  woman,"  say'st  thou,   "  is  a 

sinner  I" 
And  sate  there  none  such  at  thy  din- 
ner? 
Go,  leper,  go  I  wash  till  thy  flesh 
Comes  like  a  cnild's,   spotless  and 

fresh ; 
He  is  still  leprous  that  still  paints : 
Who  saint  themselves,  they  are  no 
saints. 


FROM  THE  "  CHRISTIAN  POLITWIANr 

Come,  then,  rare  politicians  of  the 

time, 

3  of  so 

clime 
See  here  the  method.     A  wise,  solid 

state 
Is  quick  in  acting,  friendly  in  debate. 
Joint  in  advice,  in  resolutions  just. 
Mild  in  success,  true  to  the  common 

trust. 
It  cements  ruptures,  and  by  gentle 

hand 
Allays  the  heat  and  burnings  of  a 

land.  [tract 

Religion  guides  it;    and  in  all  the 
Designs  so  twist,  that   Heaven  con- 
firms the  act. 
If  from  these  lists  you  wander,  as 

you  steer. 
Look  back,  and  catechize  your  actions 

here. 
These  are  the  marks  to  which  true 

statesmen  tend. 
And  gi-eatness  here  with  goodness 

hath  one  end. 


PROVIDENCE, 

Sacred  and  secret  hand ! 
By  whose  assisting,  swift  command 
The  angel  shewed  that  holy  well. 
Which  freed  poor  Hagar  from  her 

fears. 
And  tm-n'd  to  smiles  the  begging 
tears 
Of  young,  distressed  Ishmael. 

How,  in  a  mystic  cloud 
Which  doth  thy  strange,  sure  mercies 

shroud. 
Dost    thou    convey    man  food  and 
money. 
Unseen  by  him  till  they  arrive 
Just  at  his  mouth,  that  thankless 
hive, 
Which  kills  thy  bees,  and  eats  thy 
honey ! 

If  I  thy  ser\'ant  be. 
Whose  service  makes  even  captives 

free, 
A  fish  shall  all  my  tribute  pay. 
The  swift-winged  raven  shall  bring 

me  meat. 
And  I  like  flowers  shall  still  go 
neat. 
As  if  I  knew  no  month  but  May. 

I  will  not  fear  what  man. 
With  all  his  plots  and  power,  can. 
Bags  that  wax  old  may  plundered  be; 
But  none  can  sequester  or  let 
A  state  that  with  the  sun  doth  set, 
And  comes  next  morning  fresh  as  he. 

Poor  birds  this  doctrine  sing. 
And  herbs  which  on  dry  hills    do 

spring, 
Or  in  the  howling  wilderness 
Do  know  thy  dewy  morning  hours, 
And  watch  all  night  for  mists  or 
showers, 
Then  drink  and  praise  thy  bounteous- 
ness. 

May  he  for  ever  die 
Who  trusts  not  thee!  but  wretchedly 
Hunts  gold  and  wealth,  and  will  not 
lend 
Thy  service  nor  his  soul  one  day  I 


(524 


VAUOHAN^ 


May  his  crown,  like  his  hopes  be 
clay; 
And,  what  he  saves,  may  his  foes 
spend ! 

If  all  my  portion  here. 
The  measm-e  given  by  thee  each  year, 
Were  by  my  causeless  enemies 
Usurped,  it  never  should  me  grieve 
Who  know  how  well  thou  canst 
relieve 
Whose  hands  are  open  as  thine  eyes. 

Great  King  of  love  and  truth ! 
Who  would' St  not  hate  my  froward 

youth, 
And  wilt  not  leave  me  when  groT\Ti 
old; 
Gladly  will  I,  like  Pontic  sheep. 
Unto  my  wormwood  diet  keep. 
Since  thou  hast  made  thy  arm  my 
fold. 


sunn  AYS. 

Bkight  shadows  of  true  rest!  some 

shoots  of  bliss ; 
Heaven  once  a  week; 
The  next  world's  gladness  prepossest 

in  this ; 
A  day  to  seek ; 
Eternity  in  time ;  the  steps  by  which 
We  climb  above  all  ages ;  lamps  that 

light 
Man  through  his  heap  of  dark  days ; 

and  the  rich 
And  full  redemption  of   the  whole 

week's  flight! 

The    pulleys   unto    headlong    man  ; 
time's  bower; 
The  narrow  way ; 

Transplanted  Paradise ;  God's  walk- 
ing-hour; 
The  cool  o'th'  day! 

The  creature's  jubilee;  God's  parle 
with  dust ; 

Heaven  here ;  man  on  those  hills  of 
mirth  and  flowers; 

Angels  descending;   the  returns  of 
trust; 

A    gleam   of    glory   after   six-days- 
showers  ! 


The  church's  love-feasts;  time's  pre- 
rogative, 
And  interest 

Deducted  from  the  whole ;  the  combs 
and  hive, 
And  home  of  rest ; 

The  milky  way  chalked    out    with 
suns ;  a  clue. 

That  guides  through  erring  hours; 
and  in  full  story 

A  taste  of   heaven    on    earth;    the 
pledge  and  cue 

Of  a  full  feast ;  and  the  out-courts  of 
glory. 


THE  S HO  WEE. 

Waters  above !  eternal  springs ! 

The  dew  that  silvers  the  Dove's 
wings ! 

O  welcome,  welcome,  to  the  sad ! 

Give  dry  dust  drink,  drink  that 
makes  glad. 

Many  fair  evenings,  many  flowers 

Sweetened  with  rich  and  gentle  show- 
ers, 

Have  I  enjoyed;  and  down  have  run 

Many  a  fine  and  shining  sun ; 

But  never,  till  this  happy  hour. 

Was  blest  with  such  an  evening 
shower  I 


FEOM  "liULES  AND  LESSONS." 

When  first  thy  eyes  unveil,  give  thy 

soul  leave 
To  do  the  like ;  our  bodies  but  forerun 
The  spirit's  duty.   True  hearts  spread 

and  heave 
Unto  their  God,  as  flowers  do  to  the 

sun. 
Give  him  thy  first  thoughts  then; 

so  shalt  thou  keep 
Him  company  all  day,  and  in  him 

sleep. 

Yet  never  sleep  the  sun  tip.     Prayer 

should 
Dawn  with  the  day.     There  are  set, 

awful  lionrs 
'Twixt  heaven  and  us.     The  manna 

was  not  gox)d 


VAUOHAlT. 


625 


After    sun-rising  ;     far-day    sullies 

flowers. 
Rise  to  prevent  the  sun ;  sleep  doth 

sins  glut, 
And  heaven's  gate  opens  when  this 

world's  is  shut. 

Serve  God  before  the  world ;  let  him 
not  go, 

Until  thou  hast  a  blessing;  then  re- 
sign 

The  whole  unto  him ;  and  remember 
who 

Prevail' d  by  wrestling  ere  the  sun 
did  shine. 
Pour  oil  upon  the  stones ;  weep  for 

thy  sin ; 
Then  journey  on,  and  have  an  eye 
to  heaven. 

When    the   world's    up,   and  every 

swarm  abroad. 
Keep  thou  thy  temper;  mix  not  with 

each  clay ; 
Dispatch  necessities ;  life  hath  a  load 
Which  must  be  carried  on,  and  safely 

may, 
Yet  keep  those  cares  without  thee, 

let  the  heart 
Be  God's  alone,  and  choose  the 

better  part. 

To  God,  thy  coimtry,  and  thy  friend 
be  true ; 

If  priest  and  people  change,   keep 
thou  thy  ground. 

Who  sells  religion  is  a  Judas  Jew; 

And,  oaths  once  broke,  the  soul  can- 
not be  sound. 
The  perjurer's  a  devil   let  loose: 

what  can 
Tie  up  his  hands,  that  dares  mock 
God  and  man  ? 

Seek  not  the  same  steps  with  the 

crowd ;  stick  thou 
To  thy  sure  trot ;  a  constant,  humble 

mind 
Is  both  his  own  joy,  and  his  Maker's 

too; 
Let  folly  dust  it  on,  or  lag  behind. 
A  sweet  self-privacy  in  a  right  soul 
Outruns  the  earth,  and  lines  the 

utmost  pole. 


To  all  that  seek  thee  bear  an  open 

heart; 
Make  not  thy  breast  a  labyrinth  or 

trap ; 
If  trials  come,  this  will  make  good 

thy  part. 
For  honesty  is  safe,  come  what  can 

hap; 
It  is  the  good    man's  feast,  the 

prince  of  flowers. 
Which  thrives  in  stonus,  and  smells 

best  after  showers. 


Spend  not  an  hour  so  as  to  weep  an- 
other. 

For  tears  are  not  thine  own ;  if  thou 
giv'st  words, 

Dash  not  with  them  thy  friend,  nor 
heaven;  oh,  smother 

A  viperous  thought;  some  syllables 
are  swords. 
Unbitted  tongues  are  in  their  pres- 
ence double ; 
They  shame  their  owners,  and  their 
hearers  trouble. 


When  night  comes,  list  thy  deeds; 

make  plain  the  way 
'Twixt  heaven  and  thee ;  block  it  not 

with  delays ; 
But  perfect  all  before  thou  sleep' st; 

then  say, 
"  There's  one  sun  more  strung  on  my 

bead  of  days." 
"Wliat's  good  score  up  for  joy;  the 

bad  well  scann'd 
Wash  off  with  tears,  and  get  thy 

Master's  hand. 


Thy  accotmts  thus  made,  spend  in  the 

grave  one  hour 
Before  thy  time;  be  not  a  stranger 

there. 
Where  thou  may'st  sleep  whole  ages; 

life's  poor  flower 
Lasts  not  a  night  sometimes.     Bad 

spirits  fear 
This  conversation;  but  the  good 

man  lies 
Entombed  many  days    before  he 

dies. 


626 


VAUGHAN. 


Being  laid,  and  dressed  for  sleep,  close 

not  thy  eyes 
Up  with  thy  curtains;  give  thy  soul 

the  wing 
In  some  good  thoughts ;  so  when  thy 

day  shall  rise, 
And   thou  unrakest  thy  fire,   those 

sparks  will  bring 
New  flames;   besides  where  these 

lodge,  vain  heats  mourn 
And  die ;  that  bush,  where  God  is, 

shall  not  burn. 


TO  HIS  BOOKS. 

Bright  books!   the  perspectives  to 

our  weak  sights. 
The  clear  projections  of   discerning 

lights, 
Burning  and  shining  thoughts,  man's 

posthume  day, 
The  track  of  fled  souls,  and  their 

milky  way,  voice 

The  dead  alive  and  busy,  the  still 
Of  enlarged  spirits,  kind  Heaven's 

white  decoys! 
Who  lives  with  you  lives  like  those 

knowing  flowers, 
Which  in  commerce  with  light  spend 

all  their  hours; 
Which  shut  to  clouds,  and  shadows 

nicely  shun, 
But  with  glad  haste  unveil  to  kiss 

the  sun.  (night, 

Beneath  you  all  is  dark,  and  a  dead 
Which  whoso  lives  in,  wants  both 

health  and  sight. 
By  sucking  you,  the  wise,  like  bees, 

do  grow 
Healing  and  rich,  though  this  they 

do  most  slow, 
Because  most  choicely ;  for  as  great  a 

store 
Have  we  of  books  as  bees  of  herbs, 

or  more: 


And  the  great  task  to  try,  then  know, 

the  good. 
To    discern    weeds,    and    judge    of 

wholesome  food, 
Is  a  rare  scant   performance.     For 

man  dies 
Oft  ei-e  'tis  done,  while  the  bee  feeds 

and  flies. 
But  you  were  all  choice  flowers;  all 

set  and  dressed 
By  old  sage  florists,  who  well  knew 

the  best ; 
And  I  amidst  you  all  am  turned  a 

weed, 
Not  wanting  knowledge,  but  for  want 

of  heed. 
Then  thank  thyself,  wild  fool,  that 

would' St  not  be 
Content    to   know  —  what    was    too 

much  for  thee  I 


LIKE  AS  A  NURSE. 

Even  as  a  nurse,  whose  child's  im- 
patient pace 

Can  hardly  lead  his  feet  from  place 
to  place, 

Leaves  her  fond  kissing,  sets  him 
down  to  go. 

Nor  does  uphold  him  for  a  step  or 
two; 

But  when  she  finds  that  he  begins  to 
fall. 

She  holds  him  up  and  kisses  him 
withal ; 

So  God  from  man  sometimes  with- 
draws his  hand 

Awhile,  to  teach  his  infant  faith  to 
stand ; 

But  when  He  sees  his  feeble  strength 
begin 

To  fail.   He    gently  takes   him   up 


VERY. 


627 


Jones  Very. 


NATUJiE. 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when 
I  come  by, 

Because  my  feet  find  measure  with 
its  call ; 

The  birds  know  when  the  friend  they 
love  is  nigh, 

For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great 
anil  small. 

The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hill- 
side grows 

Expects  me  there  when  spring  its 
bloom  has  given ; 

And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wan- 
derings knows, 

And  e'en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars 
of  heaven; 

For  he  who  with  his  Maker  walks 
aright. 

Shall  be  their  lord  as  Adam  was  be- 
fore; 

His  ear  shall  catch  each  sound  with 
new  delight, 

Each  object  wear  the  dress  that  then 
it  wore ; 

And  he,  as  when  erect  in  soul  he 
stood. 

Hear  from  his  Father's  lips  that  all 
is  good. 


THE    WOULD. 

'Tis  all  a  great  show, 

The  world  that  we're  in  — 
None  can  tell  when  'twas  finished. 

None  saw  it  begin ; 
Men  wander  and  gaze  through 

Its  courts  and  its  halls, 
Like  children  whose  love  is 

The  picture-hung  walls. 

There  are  flowers  in  the  meadow, 
There  are  clouds  in  the  sky  — 

Songs  pour  from  the  woodland, 
The  waters  glide  by: 


Too  many,  too  many 

For  eye  or  for  ear. 
The  sights  that  we  see. 

And  the  sounds  that  we  hear. 

A  weight  as  of  slumber 

Comes  down  on  the  mind; 
So  swift  is  life's  train 

To  its  objects  we're  blind; 
I  myself  am  but  one 

In  the  fleet-gliding  show  — 
Like  others  I  walk. 

But  know  not  where  I  go. 

One  saint  to  another 

I  heard  say  "  How  long  ?" 
I  listened,  but  nought  more 

I  heard  of  his  song; 
The  shadows  are  walking 

Through  city  and  plain,  — 
How  long  shall  the  night 

And  its  shadow  remain  ? 

How  long  ere  shall  shine. 

In  this  glimmer  of  things, 
The  light  of  which  prophet 

In  prophecy  sings  ? 
And  the  gates  of  that  city 

Be  open,  whose  sun 
No  more  to  the  west 

Its  circuit  shall  run ! 


HOME  AND  HEAVEN. 

With  the  same  letter  heaven  and 
home  begin, 

And  the  words  dwell  together  in  the 
mind; 

For  they  who  would  a  home  in  heav- 
en win. 

Must  first  a  heaven  in  home  begin  to 
find. 

Be  happy  here,  yet  with  a  humble 
soul 

That  looks  for  perfect  happiness  in 
heaven; 


628                                             WALLER, 

For  what  thou  hast  is  earnest  of  the 

And  the  lone  spot  whereon  he  lay  to 

whole 

rest 

Which  to  the  faithful  shall  at  last 

Became  to  him  the  gate  of  heaven 

be  given. 

below ; 

As  once  the  patriarch,  in  a  vision 

So  may  to  thee,  when  life  itself  is 

blessed, 

done, 

Saw  the  swift   angels  hastening  to 

Thy  home  on  earth  and  heaven  above 

and  fro, 

be  one. 

Edmund  Waller. 


OLD  AGE  AND  DEATH. 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds 

give  o'er; 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no 

more.  [to  boast 

For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was 
Of  fleeting  things,  too  certain  to  be 

lost. 

Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger 

eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which    age 

descries. 
The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and 

decayed, 
Lets  in  new  light  through    chinks 

that  time  has  made. 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  be- 
come, [home. 

As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal 

Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once 
tliey  view. 

That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
new. 


THE  ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  rose ! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee. 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young. 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied. 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide. 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth  — 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired. 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  — 
Hov/  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 


OxV  A  GIRDLE. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  dear, 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass,  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good  and  all  that's  fair; 
Give  me  but  what  this  riband  bound. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sua  goes  round. 


WEBSTER. 


629 


Augusta  Webster. 


FROM ''A  PREACHER." 

I  KNOW  not  how  it  is ; 

I  take  the  faith  in  earnest,  1  believe, 

Even  at  happy  times  I  tliink  I  love, 

I  try  to  pattein  me  upon  the  type 

My  Master  left  us,  am  no  hypocrite 

Playing  my  soul  against  good  men's 
applause, 

Nor  monger  of  the  Gospel  for  a  cure. 

But  serve  a  Master  whom  I  chose 
because 

It  seemed  to  me  I  loved  Him,  whom 
till  now 

My  longing  is  to  love;  and  yet  I  feel 

A  falseness  somewhere  clogging  me. 
I  seera 

Divided  from  myself;  I  can  speak 
words 

Of  burning  faith  and  fire  myself  with 
them; 

I  can,  while  upturned  faces  gaze  on 
me 

As  if  I  were  their  Gospel  manifest, 

Break  into  unplanned  turns  as  natu- 
ral 

As  the  blind  man's  cry  for  healing, 
pass  beyond 

My  bounded  manhood  in  the  earnest- 
ness 

Of  a  messenger  from  God.  And  then 
I  come 

And  in  my  study's  quiet  find  again 

The  callous  actor  who,  because  long 
since 

He  had  some  feelings  in  him  like  the 
talk 

The  book  puts  in  his  mouth,  still 
warms  his  pit 

And  even,  in  his  lucky  moods,  him- 
self. 

With  the  passion  of  his  part,  but 
lays  aside 

His  heroism  with  his  satin  suit 

And  thinks  "  the  part  is  good  and 
well  conceived 

And  very  natural  —  no  flaw  to  find  " 

And  then  forgets  it. 


Yes,  I  preach  to  others 
And  am  —  I  know  not  what  —  a  cast- 
away ? 
No,  but  a  man  who  feels  his  heart 

asleep, 
As  he  might  feel  his  hand  or  foot. 

To-night  now  I  might  triumph.    Not 

a  breath 
But  shivered  when   I  pictured  the 

dead  soul 
Awakening  when  the  body  dies,  to 

know 
Itself  has  lived  too  late;  and  drew  in 

long 
With  yearning  when  I  showed  how 

perfect  love 
Might  make  Earth's  self  be  but  an 

earlier  Heaven. 
And  I  may  say  and  not  be  over-bold. 
Judging  from  former  fruits,  "Some 

one  to-night 
Has  come  more  near  to  God,  some 

one  has  felt 
What  it  may  mean  to  love  Him, 

some  one  learned 
A  new  great  horror  against  death 

and  sin. 
Some     one    at    least  —  it   may   be 

many." 

And  yet,  I  know  not  why  it  is,  this 

knack 
Of    sermon-making  seems  to   carry 

me 
Athwart  the  truth  at  times  before  I 

know — 
In  little  things  at  least;  thank  God 

the  greater 
Have  not  yet  grown,  by  the  familiar 

use. 
Such  puppets  of  a  phrase  as  to  slip 

by 

Without  clear  recognition.  Take  to- 
night — 

I  preached  a  careful  sermon,  gravely 
planned, 


630 


WEBSTER. 


All   of  it  written.      Not  a  line  was 

meant 
To  fit  the  mood  of  any  differing 
From  my  own  judgment:    not   the 

less  I  find  — 
(I  thought  of  it  coming  home  while 

my  good  Jane 
Talked  of  the  Shetland  pony  I  must 

get 
For  the  boys  to  learn  to  ride:)  yes, 

here  it  is, 
And  here  again  on  this  page  —  blame 

by  rote, 
Where  by  my  private  judgment    I 

blame  not. 
"  We  think  our  own  thoughts  on  this 

day,"  I  said, 
"Harmless  it  may  be,  kindly  even^ 

still 
Not  Heaven's  thoughts  —  not  Sunday 

thoughts  I'll  say." 
Well  now,  do  I,  now  that  I  think  of 

it, 
Advise  a  separation  of  our  thoughts 
By  Sundays  and  by  week-days,  Heav- 
en's and  ours? 
By  no  means,  for  I  think  the  bar  is 

bad. 
I'll    teach   my  children  "Keep  all 

thinkings  pure, 
And  think  them  when  you  like,  if 

but  the  time 
Is  free  to  any  thinking.     Think  of 

God 
So  often  that  in  anything  you  do 
It  cannot  seem  you  have  forgotten 

Him, 
Just  as  you  would  not  have  forgotten 

us, 
.Your  mother  and  myself,  although 

your  thoughts 
Were  not  distinctly  on  us,  while  you 

played; 
And,  if  you  do  this,  in  the  Sunday's 

rest 
You  will  most    naturally  think   of 

Him." 

Then  here  again  "the  pleasures  of 

the  world 
That  tempt  the  younger  members  of 

my  flock." 
Now  I  think  really  that  they've  not 

enough 


Of  these  same  pleasures.     Gray  and 

joyless  lives 
A  many  of  them  have,  whom  I  would 

see 
Sharing  the  natural  gayeties  of  youth. 
I  wish  they'd  more  temptations  of 

the  kind. 

Now  Donne  and  Allan  preach  such 

things  as  these 
Meaning  them  and  believing.    As  for 

me, 
What  did  I  mean  ?    Neither  to  feign 

nor  teach 
A  Pharisaic  service.   'Twas  just  this. 
That  there  are  lessons  and  rebukes 

long  made 
So  much  a  thing  of  course  that,  un- 

observing. 
One  sets  them  down  as  one  puts  dots 

to  i's, 
Crosses  to  Vs. 


[From  A  Painter.'] 

THE  ARTIST'S  DREAD  OF  BLIND- 
NESS. 

How  one  can  live  on  beauty  and  be 

rich 
Having  only  that !  —  a  thing  not  hard 

to  find. 
For  all  the  world  is  beauty.      We 

know  that. 
We  painters,  we  whom  God  shows 

how  to  see. 
We  have  beauty  ours,   we  take    it 

where  we  go. 
Ay,  my  wise  critics,  rob  me  of  my 

bread. 
You  can  do  that,  but  of  my  birth- 
right, no. 
Imprison  me  away  from  skies  and 

seas. 
And  the  open  sight  of  earth  and  her 

rich  life, 
And  the  lesson  of  a  face  or  golden 

hair: 
I'll  find  it  for  you  on  a  whitewashed 

wall, 
Where  the  slow  shadows  only  change 

so  much 
As    shows    the  street  has  different 

darknesses 
At  noontime  and  at  twilight. 


WEBSTER. 


631 


Only  that 
Could  make  me  poor  of  beauty  which 

I  dread 
Sometimes,  I  know  not  why,  save 

that  it  is 
The  one   thing  which  I  could  not 

bear,  not  bear 
Even  with   Kuth  by  me,  even   for 

Ruth's  sake  — 
If  this  perpetual  plodding  with  the 

brush 
Should  blind  my  fretted  eyes ! 


ON  THE   LAKE. 

A  SUMMER  mist  on  the  mountain 
heights, 
A  golden  haze  in  the  sky, 
A  glow  on   the   shore  of   sleeping 
lights. 
And  shadows  lie  heavily. 

Far  in  the  valley  the  towTi  lies  still, 
Dreaming  asleep  in  the  glare, 

Dreamily  near  purs  the  drowsy  rill. 
Dreams  are  afloiit  in  the  air. 

Dreaming  above  us  the  languid  sky. 
Dreaming  the  slumbering  lake, 

And  we  who  rest  floating  listlessly, 
Say,  love,  do  we  dream  or  wake  ? 


THE   GIFT. 

0  HAPPY  glow,  O  sun-bathed  tree, 
O  golden-lighted  river, 

A  love-gift  has  been  given  me. 
And  which  of  you  is  giver  ? 

1  came  upon  you  something  sad. 
Musing  a  mournful  measure, 

Now  all  my  heart  in  me  is  ^lad 
With  a  quick  sense  of  pleasure. 


I  came  upon  you  with  a  heart 
Half-sick  of  life's  vexed  story. 

And  now  it  grows  of  you  a  part, 
Steeped  in  your  golden  glory. 

A  smile  into  my  heart  has  crept 
And  laughs  through  all  my  being, 

New  joy  into  my  life  has  leapt, 
A  joy  of  only  seeing ! 

O  happy  glow,  O  sun-bathed  tree, 

O  golden-lighted  river, 
A  love-gift  has  been  given  me, 

And  which  of  you  is  giver  ? 


TWO  MAIDENS. 

Two  maidens  listening  to  the  sea  — 
The  younger  said  "  The  waves  are 

glad, 
The  waves  are  singing  as  they  break." 

The  elder  spake : 
"Sister,  their  murmur  sounds  to  me 

So  very  sad." 

Two  maidens  looking  at  a  grave  — 
One  smiled,  "A  place  of  happy  sleep. 
It  would  be  happy  if  I  slept." 

The  younger  wept : 
"Oh,  save  me  from  the  rest  you  crave, 

So  lone,  so  deep." 

Two  maidens  gazing  into  life  — 
The  younger  said,  "  It  is  so  fair. 
So  warm  with  light  and  love  and 
pride." 

The  elder  sighed : 
"  It  seems  to  me  so  vexed  with  strife, 

So  cold  and  bare." 

Two  maidens  face  to  face  with  death: 
The  elder  said,  "  With  quiet  bliss 
Upon  his  breast  I  lay  my  head." 

The  younger  said : 
"  His  kiss  has  frozen  all  my  breath, 

Must  I  he  his?'' 


632 


WESLEY. 


Charles  Wesley. 


STANZAS  FROM  "  THE   TRUE    USE 
OF  MUSIC." 

Listed  into  the  cause  of  sin, 

Why  should  a  good  be  evil  ? 
Music,  alas!  too  long  has  been 

Pressed  to  obey  the  devil  — 
Drunken,  or  lewd,  or  light,  the  lay 

Flowed  to  the  soul's  undoing  — 
Widened,  and  strewed  with  flowers, 
the  way 

Down  to  eternal  ruin. 

Who  on  the  part  of  God  will  rise, 

Innocent  sound  recover  — 
Fly  on  the  prey,  and  take  the  prize, 

Plunder  the  carnal  lover  — 
Strip  him  of  every  moving  strain, 

Every  melting  measure  — 
Music  in  virtue's  cause  retain, 

Rescue  the  holy  pleasure  ? 

Come,  let  us  try  if  Jesus'  love 

Will  not  as  well  inspire  us; 
This  is  the  theme  of  those  above  — 

This  upon  earth  shall  fire  us. 
Say,  if  your  hearts  are  tuned  to  sing 

is  there  a  subject  greater  ? 
Harmony  all  its  strains  may  bring; 

Jesus'  name  is  sweeter. 


THE  ONLY  LIGHT. 

Christ,  whose  glory  fills  the  skies, 
Christ,  the  true,  the  only  Light, 

Sun  of  Righteousness,  arise, 

Triumph  o'er  the  shades  of  night! 

Day-spring  from  on  high,  be  near! 

Day-star,  in  my  heart  appear ! 

Dark  and  cheerless  is  the  mom 
Unaccompanied  by  Thee; 

Joyless  is  the  day's  return 
Till  Thy  mercy's  beams  I  see-, 

Till  they  inward  light  impart. 

Glad  my  eyes  and  warm  my  heart. 


Visit,  then,  this  soul  of  mine, 
Pierce  the  gloom  of  sin  and  grief! 

Fill  me,  Radiancy  Divine, 
Scatter  all  my  unbelief  ! 

More  and  more  Thyself  display. 

Shining  to  the  perfect  day. 


JESUS,  LOVER  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul. 
Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 

While  the  nearer  waters  roll. 
While  the  tempest  still  is  nigh! 

Hide  me,  O  my  Saviour,  hide, 
Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past: 

Safe  into  Thy  haven  guide  — 

0  receive  my  soul  at  last! 

Other  refuge  have  I  none  — 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee ; 
Leave,  ah !  leave  me  not  alone  — 

Still  support  and  comfort  me. 
All  my  tnist  on  Thee  is' stayed. 

All  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring : 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing. 

Wilt  Thou  not  regard  my  call  ? 

Wilt  Thou  not  regard  my  prayer  ? 
Lo!  I  sink,  I  faint,  I  fall  — 

Lo !  on  Thee  I  cast  my  care ; 
Reach  me  out  Thy  gracious  hand. 

While  I  of  Thy  strength  receive ! 
Hoping  against  hope  I  stand  — 

Dying,  and  behold  I  live. 

Thou,  O  Christ,  art  all  I  want  — 
More  than  all  in  Thee  I  find ; 

Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint, 
Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  the  blind. 

Just  and  holy  is  Thy  name  — 

1  am  all  unrighteousness ; 
False,  and  full  of  sin  I  am :  — 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 


WHEELER. 


633 


Plenteous     grace     with     Thee     is 

Our  life  is  a  dream;  our  time,  as  a 

found, — 

stream, 

Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin ; 

Glides  swiftly  away; 

Let  the  healing  streams  abound  — 

And  the  fugitive  moment  refuses  to 

Make  and  keep  me  pure  within. 

stay. 

Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art  — 

Freely  let  me  take  of  Thee; 

The  arrow  is  flown;  the  moment  is 

Spring  Thou  up  within  my  heart  — 

gone; 

Kise  to  all  eternity. 

The  millennial  year 

Rushes  on  to  our  view,  and  eternity's 

here. 

COME,  LET  US  ANEW. 

0  that  each  in  the  day  of  his  coming 
may  say, 
"  I  have  fought  my  way  through ; 

Come,  let  us  anew  our  journey  pursue, 

Roll  round  with  the  year, 

I  have  finished  the  work  thou  didst 

And  never  stand  still,  till  the  Master 

give  me  to  do." 

appear. 

0  that  each,  from  his  Lord,  may  re- 

His adorable  will  let  us  gladly  fulfil, 

ceive  the  glad  word, 

And  our  talents  improve. 

"  Well  and  faithfully  done; 

By  the  patience  of  hope,  and  the 

''  Enter  into  my  joy,  and  sit  down  on 

labor  of  love. 

my  throne." 

Ella  Wheeler. 


SECRETS. 

Think  not  some  knowledge  rests  with  thee  alone. 
Why,  even  God's  stupendous  secret,  Death, 
We  one  by  one,  with  our  expiring  breath, 
Do,  pale  with  wonder,  seize  and  make  our  own. 
The  bosomed  treasures  of  the  earth  are  shown 
Despite  her  careful  hiding ;  and  the  air 
Yields  its  mysterious  marvels  in  despair. 
To  swell  the  mighty  storehouse  of  things  known. 

In  vain  the  sea  expostulates  and  raves; 
It  cannot  cover  from  the  keen  world's  siglit 
The  curious  wonders  of  its  coral  caves. 
And  so,  despite  thy  caution  or  thy  tears, 
The  prying  fingers  of  detective  years 
Shall  drag  thy  secret  out  into  the  light. 


634 


WHITE. 


Blanco  White. 

TO   NIGHT. 


Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first 

parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard 

thy  name ; 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely 

frame, 
This  glorious    canopy  of  light  and 

blue  ? 
Yet  'neath  the  curtain  of  translucent 

dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  set- 
ting flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven 

came. 


And  lo!  creation  widened  in  man's 
view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  dark- 
ness lay  concealed 

Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun!  or  who 
could  find, 

While  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  lay  re- 
vealed, 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou 
madest  us  blind ! 

Why  do  we,  then,  shun  Death  with 
anxious  strife  ? — 

If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore 
not  Life  ? 


Henry  Kirke  White. 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen 

sire! 
Whose  modest   form,   so    delicately 
fine, 
Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms. 
And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee  when  young  Spring  first  ques- 
tioned Winter's  sway. 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the 
fight. 
Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 
To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the 

year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping 
gale, 
Unnoticed  and  alone, 
Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid 
the  storms 

Of  chill  adversity,  in  some  lone  walk 
Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 
Obscure  and  unobserved ; 


While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on 

her  blows, 
Chastens     her    spotless     purity    of 
breast, 
And  hardens  her  to  bear 
Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


SOLITUDE. 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low. 
That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow ; 
It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan, 
It  is  that  I  am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam, 
When    the    tired    hedger    hies    him 

home ; 
Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest. 
When  pale  the   star   looks    on    its 

breast. 

Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs, 
With  hallowed  airs  and  symphonies, 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone. 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 


WHITE. 


635 


The  autumn  leaf  is  sere  and  dead, 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed; 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden 

wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale; 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free, 
And  when  1  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I  view, 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me 

too; 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision's  flown, 
1  weep  that  I  am  all  alone. 


ODE   TO  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad ; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
The  restless  and  the  bad. 
But  I  recline 
Beneath  thy  shrine, 
And  round  my  brow   resigned,  thy 
peaceful  cypress  twine. 

Though  Fancy  flies  away 

Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
Yet  Meditation  in  her  cell ; 
Hears  with  faint  eye  the  lingering 
knell, 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead ; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear, 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say,  My  all 
was  not  laid  here. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come! 
Though     from     Hope's     summit 
hurled. 
Still,  rigid  nurse,  thou  art  forgiven, 
For    thou    severe   wert   sent    from 
heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world ; 
To  turn  my  eye 
From  vanity, 
And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that 
never,  never  die. 


What  is  this  passing  scene! 

A  peevish  April  day! 
A  little  sun  —  a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  sweeps   along   the 
I)lain, 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discussed) 
Yields  up  his  trust, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with 
him  in  the  dust. 

Oh,  what  is  beauty's  power? 

It  flourishes  ami  dies; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break. 
To    tell    how   soft,   how  smooth    a 
cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies  ? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
O'er  beauty's  fall; 
Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when 
mantled  in  the  pall. 

The  most  beloved  on  earth 
Not  long  survives  to-day; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete, 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing 
sweet ; 
But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
When  in   forsaken  tomb  the    form 
beloved  is  laid. 

Then  since  this  world  is  vain, 

And  volatile  and  fleet. 
Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where  rust  corrupts,  and  moth  de- 
stroys. 
And  cares  and  soitows  eat  ? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill, 
When  soon  this  hand   will    freeze, 
this  throbbing  heart  be  still  ? 

Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me ; 
Sad  monitress!    I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
I  only  bow  and  say.  My  God,  Thy 
will  be  done. 


636 


WHITNEY. 


THE  STAXZA  ADDED  TO  WALLER'S 

"HOSE." 

Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance 
rise; 
And  teach  the  maid, 
That  goodness  Time's  rude  hand  de- 
fies, 
That  virtue  lives  when  beauty  dies. 


TO  MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune,  I  am  young, —  my  chin 

is  bare. 
And  I  have  wondered  much  when 

men  have  told 
How  youth  was  free  from  sorrow  and 

from  care. 
That  thou  should' st  dwell  with  me, 

and  leave  the  old. 
Sure  dost  not  like  me !  —  Shrivelled 

hag  of  hate. 
My  phiz,  and  thanks  to  thee,  is 

sadly  long; 
1   am   not    either,   beldame,   over 

strong ; 
Kor  do  I  wish  at  all  to  be  thy  mate, 
For  thou,  sweet  Fury,  art  my  utter 

hate. 
Nay,  shake  not  thus  thy  miserable 

pate;  [face; 

I  am  yet  young,  and  do  not  like  thy 
And  lest  thou  should' st  resume  the 

wild-goose  cliase, 


I'll  tell  thee  something  all  thy  heat 

to  assuage. 
Thou  wilt  not  hit  my  fancy  in  my 

age. 


A  LITTLE  BEFORE  DEATH. 

Yes,    'twill   be   over   soon.  —  This 
sickly  dream 
Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  fever- 
ish brain ; 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  re- 
deem 
From  this  wild  region  of  unvaried 
pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  be- 
fore,— 
Yon  landscape  smile, —  yon  golden 
harvest  grow. 
Yon  sprightly  lark  on  mounting  wing 
will  soar, 
When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no 
more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  friends 
caress. 
They  laugh  in  health,  and  future 
evils  brave; 
Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  chil- 
dren bless. 
While  I  am  mouldering  in  my  silent 
grave. 
God  of  the  just,  —  Thou  gavest  the 

bitter  cup ; 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 


Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney. 


EQUINOCTIAL. 

The  sun  of  life  has  crossed  the  line; 

The  summer-shine  of  lengthened 
light 
Faded  and  failed,  till  where  I  stand 

'Tis  equal  day  and  equal  night. 

One  after  one,  as  dwindling  hours. 
Youth's  glowing  hopes  have  drop- 
ped away, 

And  soon  may  barply  ^.eavethe  gleam 
That  coldly  scores  a  winter's  day. 


I  am  not  young;  I  am  not  old; 

The  flush  of  morn,  the  sunset  calm, 
Paling  and  deepening,  each  to  each, 

Meet  midway  with  a  solemn  charm. 

One  side  I  see  the  summer  fields 
Not  yet  disrobed  of  all  their  green; 

While  westerly,  along  the  hills 
Flame  the  first  tints  of  frosty  sheen. 

Ah,  middle  point,  where  cloud  and 
storm 
Make  battle-ground  of  this,  my  life! 


WHITNEY, 


637 


Where,  even-matched,  the  night  and 
day 
Wage  round  me  their  September 
strife ! 

1  bow  me  to  the  threatening  gale; 

I  know  when  that  is  overpast. 
Among  the  peaceful  harvest  days, 

An  Indian  summer  comes  at  last  I 


BEHIND  THE  MASK. 

It  was  an  old,  distorted  face, — 
An    uncouth    visage,    rough    and 
wild, — 
Yet,    from    behind,    with    laughing 
grace, 
Peeped  the  fresh  beauty  of  a  child. 

And  so,  contrasting  strange  to-day, 
My  heart  of  youth  doth  inly  ask 

If    half   earth's   wrinkled    grimness 
may 
Be  but  the  baby  in  the  mask. 

Behind  gray  hairs  and  furrowed  brow 

And  withered  look  that  life  puts 

on. 

Each,  as  he  wears  it,  comes  to  know 

How  the  child  liides,  and  is  not 

gone. 

For  while  the  inexorable  years 
To    saddened    features    fit    their 
mould. 
Beneath  the  work  of  time  and  tears 
AVaits  something  that  will  not  grow 
old! 

The  rifted  pine  upon  the  hill, 
Scarred  by  the  liglitning  and  the 
wind, 
Through  bolt  and  blight  doth  nurture 
still 
Young  fibres  underneath  the  rind ; 

And  many  a  storm-blast,  fiercely  sent, 
And  wasted  hope,  and  sinful  stain, 
Roughen  the  strange  integument 
I  Strug 
pain; 


Yet  when  she  comes  to  claim  her  own, 

Heaven's  angel,  happily,  shall  not 

ask 

For  that  last  look  the  world  hath 

known. 

But  for  the  face  behind  the  mask ! 


THE  THREE  LIGHTS. 

My  window  that  looks  down  the  west. 
Where  the  cloud-thrones  and  islands 

rest. 
One  evening,  to  my  random  sight. 
Showed  forth  this  picture  of  delight. 

The  shifting  glories  were  all  gone ; 
The  clear  blue  stillness  coming  on; 
And  the  soft  shade,  'twixt  day  and 

night 
Held  the  old  earth  in  tender  light. 

Up  in  the  ether  hung  the  horn 
Of  a  young  moon ;  and,  newly  bom 
From  out  the  shadows,  trembled  far 
The  shining  of  a  single  star. 

Only  a  hand's  breadth  was  between: 

So  close  they  seemed,  so  sweet- 
serene. 

As  if  in  heaven  some  child  and 
mother. 

With  peace  untold,  had  found  each 
other. 

Then  my  glance  fell  from  that  fair 

sky 
A  little  dowTi,  yet  very  nigh. 
Just  where  the  neighboring  tree-tops 

made 
A  lifted  line  of  billowy  shade, — 

And  from  the  earth-dark  twinkled 

clear 
One  other  spark,  of  human  cheer ; 
A  home-smile,   telling  where  there 

stood 
A  farmer's  house  beneath  the  wood. 

Only  these  three  in  all  the  space ; 
Far  telegraphs  of  various  place. 
Which  seeing,  this  glad  thought  was 

mine, — 
Be  it  but  little  candle-shine, 


638 


WHITNEY. 


Or  golden  disk  of  moon  that  swings 
Nearest  of  all  the  heavenly  things, 
Or  world  in  awful  distance  small, 
One  Light  doth  feed  and  link  them 
all! 


"  /  WILL  ABIDE  IN  THINE  HOUSE.'' 

Among  so  many,  can  He  care  ? 
Can  special  love  be  everywhere  ? 
A  myriad  homes, —  a  myriad  ways, — 
And  God's  eye  over  every  place. 

Over ;  but  in  ?    The  world  is  full ; 
A  grand  omnipotence  must  rule; 
But  is  there  life  that  doth  abide 
With  mine  own  living,  side  by  side  ? 

So  many,  and  so  wide  abroad  : 
Can  any  heart  have  all  of  God  ? 
From  the  great  spaces,  vague  and  dim. 
May  one  small  household  gather  Him? 

I  asked :  my  soul  bethought  of  this:  — 
In  just  that  very  place  of  his 
Where  He  hath  put  and  keepeth  you, 
God  hath  no  other  thing  to  do ! 


HEARTH-GLOW. 


In  the  fireshine  at  the  twilight, 

The  pictures  that  I  see 
Are  less  with  mimic  landscape  bright 

Than  with  life  and  mystery. 


Where  the  embers  flush  and  flicker 
With  their  palpitating  glow, 

I  see,  fitfuller  and  quicker, 
Heart-pulses  come  and  go. 

And  here  and  there,  with  eager  flame, 

A  little  tongue  of  light 
Upreaches  earnestly  to  claim 

A  somewhat  out  of  sight. 

I  know,  with  instinct  sure  and  high, 
A  somewhat  must  be  there ; 

Else  should  the  fiery  impulse  die. 
In  ashes  of  despair. 

Through  the  red  tracery  I  discern 

A  parable  sublime; 
A  solemn  myth  of  souls  that  burn 

In  ordeals  of  time. 


SUNLIGHT  AND  STARLIGHT. 

God  sets  some  souls  in  shade,  alone ; 
They  have  no  daylight  of  their  own: 
Only  in  lives  of  happier  ones 
They  see  the  shine  of  distant  suns. 


Content  thee  with  thy 
hath   grander 


God  knows. 

night. 
Thy   greater  heaven 

light. 

To-day  is  close;  the  hours  are  small; 
Thou  sit' St  afar,  and  hast  them  all. 


Lose  the  less  joy  that  doth  but  blind ; 
Reach  forth  a  larger  bliss  to  find. 
To-day  is  brief :  the  inclusive  spheres 
Rain  raptures  of  a  thousand  years. 


LARV^. 

My  little  maiden  of  four  years  old  — 

No  myth,  but  a  genuine  child  is  she, 
With  her  bronze-brown  eyes  and  her  curls  of  gold — 

Came,  quite  in  disgust,  one  day,  to  me. 

Rubbing  her  shoulder  with  rosy  palm. 
As  the  loathsome  touch  seemed  yet  to  thrill  her. 

She  cried.  *'  O  mother!  I  found  on  my  arm 
A  horrible,  crawling  caterpillar!" 

And  with  mischievous  smile  she  could  scarcely  smother, 
Yet  a  glance  in  its  daring,  half  awed,  half  shy, 

She  added,  "  While  they  were  about  it,  mother 
I  wish  they'd  just  finished  the  butterfly  1" 


WRITTIER. 


63!» 


They  were  words  to  the  thought  of  the  soul  that  turns 

From  the  coarser  form  of  a  partial  growth, 
Reproaching  the  infinite  patience  that  yearns 

With  an  unknown  glory  to  crown  them  both. 

Ah,  look  thou  largely,  with  lenient  eyes, 
On  whatso  beside  thee  may  creep  and  cling, 

For  the  possible  glory  that  underlies 
The  passing  phase  of  the  meanest  thing! 

What  if  God's  great  angels,  whose  waiting  love 

Beholdeth  our  pitiful  life  below 
From  the  holy  height  of  their  heaven  above, 

Could  n't  bear  with  the  worm  till  the  wings  should  grow  ? 


Elizabeth  H.  Whittier. 


CHARITY. 

The   pilgrim    and     stranger,    who,  \  For  gifts,  in  his  name,  cf  food  Ltid 

through  the  day,  j  rest. 

Holds  over  the  desert  his  trackless   The    tents   of    Islam,    of   God    are 


way, 
"Wliere  the  terrible  sands  no  shade 

have  known. 
No  sound  of    life  save  his  camel's 

moan. 
Hears,  at  last,  through  the  mercy  of 

Allah  to  all. 
From  his  tent-door,  at  evening,  the 

Bedouin's  call: 
"  Whoever  thou  ait,  whose  need  is 

great, 
In  the  name  of  God,  the  Compas- 
sionate 
And  Merciful    One,    for    thee    I 

wait!" 


blest. 
Thou,  who  hast  faith  in  the  Cnrist 

above. 
Shall  the  Koran  teach  thee  ILe  Law 

of  Love  ? 
O  Christian !  —  open  thy  heart  and 

door,  — 
Cry,  east  and  west,  to  the  wandering 

poor,  — 
"  Wlioever  thou  art,  whose  need  is 

great, 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  the  Compas- 
sionate 
And    Merciful    One,    for   thee   I 

wait!" 


John  G. 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons. 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 


Whittier. 

With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim' s  jaunty  grace ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy," — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy ! 
Prince  thou  art, —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side. 


640 


WHITTIER. 


Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy! 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules. 
Knowledge  never  learned  in  schools. 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place. 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine. 
Where     the    wood-grape's    clusters 

shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay. 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon. 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees. 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played. 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through   the 

night. 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall. 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond. 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew 


Larger  grew  my  riches  too ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy ! 

Oh,  for  festal  dainties  spread. 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — =- 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood. 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent. 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold; 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch ;  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy. 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man. 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard. 
Stubble  -  speared     the     new  -  mown 

SAvard, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool' wind  kiss  the  heat. 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil. 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah!  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy ! 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the 
road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow% 

And  blackberry-vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen. 
Deep  scar-red  by  raps  official ; 

The  warpir  7  floor,  the  battere<l  seats, 
The  jack  "^nife's  carved  initial; 


WHITTIER, 


641 


The  charcoal  frescoes  on  its  wall; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

iShone  over  it  at  setting; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 
Her  childish  favor  singled: 

His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 
Where  pride  and  shame  were  min- 
gled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered;  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 
The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

>  He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice. 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word: 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes   lower 
fell,— 

"Because,  you  see,  I  love  you!" 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-fa(;e  is  showing. 
Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
^  Have  forty  years  been  growing! 

He    lives    to   learn,  in    life's    hard 
school 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 

Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 


Mt  PSALM. 

I  MorRX  no  more  my  vanished  years : 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 


The  west-winds  blow,  and,  singing 
low, 

I  hear  the  glad  streams  run ; 
The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 

Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

1  look  in  hope  or  fear; 
But,  grateful  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

1  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare; 

The  manna   dropping   from    God's 
hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  —  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 
Among  the  ripening  corn. 

Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 
Blow  through  the  autumn  morn ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given: 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of 
praise, 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 

Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong ; 
The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the 
sword 

Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But    smiting    hands    shall  leain  to 
heal,  — 

To  build  as  to  destroy; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more   of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told ! 


64^ 


WHITTIER, 


Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have  marked  my  erring  track ;  — 

That    wheresoe'er     my    feet    have 
swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back;  — 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood. 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good ;  — 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 

Which  opens  into  light, 
Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 

Beyond  the  Father's  sight;  — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  pm-ple  distance  fair; — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  ail  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn. 

The    cluster' d    spires    of   Frederick 

stand, 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland ; 

Eound  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach-tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord, 
To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel 
horde. 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early 
fall. 

When  Lee  marched  over  the  moun- 
tain wall. 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 


Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the 

sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not 

one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then. 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and 
ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town. 
She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled 
down. 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced:    the  old  flag    met  his 
sight. 

' '  Halt ! ' '  — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood 

fast; 
"Fire!"— out  blazed  the  rifle-blast.' 

It  shivered  the   window,  pane    and 

sash, 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and 

gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell  from  the  broken  staff, 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken 
scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window- 
sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  grajr 

head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she 

said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirr'd 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and 
word. 

"Wlio  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!  March  on!"  he  said. 


WHITTIER. 


643 


All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet; 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tossed 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And,  through  the  hill-gaps,  sunset 
light 

Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good- 
night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er. 
And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no 
more. 

Honor  to  her!  and  let  a  tear 
Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's 
bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave. 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town. 


MAUD  MULLER. 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  me^ow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn   hat   glowed  the 

wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry 

glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off 

town, 
White    from  its   hill-slope    looking 

down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague 

unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her 

breast,  — 


A  wish  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had 
known. 

The  judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees  to  greet  the  maid ; 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring 

that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She    stooped  where  the  cool  spring 

bubbled  up. 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking 

down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered 

gown. 

"Thanks,"     said    the    judge,     "a 

sweeter  draught 
From     a  fairer    hand    was    never 

quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers 
and  trees. 

Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  hum- 
ming bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  won- 
dered whether 

The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring 
foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown. 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and 
brown ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel 
eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud    Muller    looked   and   sighed: 

"Ah  me! 
That  I  the  judge's  bride  might  be! 

' '  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so 

fine. 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine 


644 


WniTTIER. 


**  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth 

coat; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I'd dress  my  mother  so  grand  and 

gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy 

each  day. 

^''  And  I'd  feed  the  hungry,  and  clothe 

the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our 

door." 

The  judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed 

the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

**A   form   more  fair,  a  face  more 

sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

• 
"  And  her  modest  answer  and  grace- 
ful air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  hai-vester  of  hay : 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and 

wrongs, 
Nor   weary    lawyers    with    endless 

tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health,   and  quiet,  and  loving 
words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud 

and  cold. 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and 

gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  judge  rode 

on. 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  after- 
noon. 

When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old 
love-tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the 

well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover 

feU. 


He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower. 
Who  lived    for   fashion,   as  he  for 
power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright 

glow. 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go : 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was 
red, 

He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  in- 
stead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished 
rooms, 

To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover- 
blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a 

secret  pain : 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 
Where  the  barefoot   maiden  raked 
her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and 

poor. 
And    many  children    played   round 

her  door. 

But  care,  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth 

pain. 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone 

hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow 

lot. 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring-brook 

fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall. 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down,  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  hei 
face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 


WniTTIER. 


645 


And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chinmey 

lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and 

mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life 

again, 
Saying  only,  **  It  might  have  been." 

Alas,  for  maiden,  alas,  for  judge. 
For    rich    repiner    and    household 
drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both,  and  pity  us  all. 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  re- 
call. 

For  of  all   sad  words  of  tongue  or 

pen, 
The  saddest  are  these:    "It  miglit 

have  been!" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope 

lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 


{From  The  Tent  on  the  Beach.  —The  Grave 
by  the  Lake.] 
UNIVERSAL  SALVATION. 
O  THE  generations  old 
Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 
Christless,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 
To  the  silence  of  the  skies  I 
For  the  innumerable  dead 
Is  my  soul  disquieted, 

Hearest  thou,  O  of  little  faith. 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
W^hat  is  whispered  by  the  trees  ?  — 
*'  Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these; 
Trust  him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim; 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

"Blind  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 
Fiery-linked  the  self-forged  chain 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain, 
Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
But  without  He  waiteth  still. 


"  Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  flow ; 
Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

"Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen. 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Tliy  cross ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound!" 


\_From  The  Tent  on  the  Beach.  —  Abraham 
Davenport.] 

NATURE'S  REVERENCE. 

The  hai-p  at  Nature's  advent,  strung 

Has  never  ceased  to  play : 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  simg 

Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is 
given. 

By  all  things  near  and  far: 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 
As  kneels  the  hmiian  knee, 

Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 
The  priesthood  of  the  sea ! 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasiu-es 
forth, 

Tlieir  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 
And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 

Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense 
up 

From  many  a  mountain  shrine : 
From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 

She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 
Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer; 

The  altar-curtains  of  tlie  hills 
Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are 
loud. 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 


046 


WEITTIER. 


With   drooping  head  and  branches 
crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 
Its  transept  earth  and  air, 

The  music  of  its  starry  march 
The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 
With  which  her  years  began, 

And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 
The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 


THE  PRESSED  GENTIAN. 

The  time  of  gifts  has  come  again, 
And,  on  my  northern  window-pane. 
Outlined  against  the  day's  brief  light, 
A  Christmas  token  hangs  in  sight. 
The  wayside  travellers,  as  they  pass, 
Mark  the  gray  disk  of  clouded  glass; 
And  the  dull  blankness  seems,  per- 
chance, 
Folly  to  their  wise  ignorance. 

They  cannot  from  their  outlook  see 
The  perfect  grace  it  hath  for  me ; 
For  there  the  flower,  whose  fringes 

through 
The  frosty  breath  of  autumn  blew. 
Turns  from  without  its  face  of  bloom 
To  the  warm  tropic  of  my  room, 
As  fair  as  when  beside  its  brook 
The  hue  of  bending  skies  it  took. 

So,  from  the  trodden  ways  of  earth. 
Seem    some    sweet    souls    who  veil 

their  worth. 
And  offer  to  the  careless  glance 
The  clouding  gray  of  circumstance. 
They  blossom  best  where  hearth-fires 

bum, 
To  loving  eyes  alone  they  turn 
The  flowers  of  inward  grace,  that 

hide 
Their  beauty  from  the  world  outside. 

But  deeper  meanings  come  to  me. 
My  half-immortal  flower,  from  thee ! 


Man  judges  from  a  partial  view. 
None  ever  yet  his  brother  knew ; 
The  Eternal  Eye  that  sees  the  whole 
May  better  read  the  darkened  soul, 
And  find,  to  outw^ard  sense  denied. 
The  flower  upon  its  inmost  side ! 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low: 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet. 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear: 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flow- 
ers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home. 
And   took   with  her    the    laughing 
spring. 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

Slie  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin. 
She  laid  her  hand  in  mine ; 

What  more  could  ask   the  bashful 
boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their    seasons    with  as  sweet  May 
morns. 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

Slie  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  han(1:s 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
1  shook  the  walnuts  down. 


THE     PINES     WERE     DARK     ON     RAMOTH     HILL. 


Page  646 


WILDE, 


647 


The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 
The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 

And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make 
sweet 
The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

1  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems.  — 

Iv  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood, 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  sec  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice : 
D.>es  she  remember  mine  ? 

And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 
Whv".  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 


What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and 
fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  songs  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee ! 


Oscar  Wilde. 


EASTER-DA  Y. 

The  sih  er  trumpets  rang  across  the 
done : 
The  pei^j-le  knelt  upon  the  ground 

with  awe  : 
And  borno  upon  the  necks  of  men 
I  saw, 
Like  some  great  god,  the  Holy  Lord 

of  Rome. 
Priest-like,  Lo   wore    a    robe   more 
white  tl\^n  foam, 
And,   king-]i'ke,    swathed  himself 

in  royal  red. 
Three  crowns   of  gold  rose  high 
upon  his  head : 
In  splendor  and  in  light  the  Pope 

passed  hoiiv*. 
My    heart    stola    back    across  wide 
wastes  of  yonrs 
To    One    \\\\k\   wandered   by    a 

lonely  sea. 
And  sought  in  vain  for  any  place 
of  rest: 
"Foxes  have  hole\\  and  every  bird 
its  nest, 
I,  only  I,  must  wnv  der  wearily. 
And  bruise    my  i;  ^et,   and    drink 
wine  salt  with  '  ears." 


MADONNA  MTA. 

A    LILY-GIRL,   not    made    for   this 
world's  pain. 
With  brown,  soft  hair  close  braided 

by  her  ears. 
And   longing  eyes  half  veiled  by 
slumberous  tears 
Like  bluest  water  seen  through  mists 

of  rain: 
Pale  cheeks  whereon  no  love  hath 
left  its  stain. 
Red  underlip  drawn  in  for  fear  of 

love, 
And  white  throat,  whiter  than  the 
silvered  dove, 
Through  whose  wan   marble  creeps 

one  purpl6  vein. 
Yet,  though  my  lips  shall  praise  her 
without  cease. 
Even  to  kiss   her  feet  I  am  not 
bold,  [of  awe. 

Being  o'ershadowed  by  the  wings 
Like  Dante,  when   he   stood  with 
Beatrice 
Beneath  th^  flaming  lion's  breast, 

and  saw 
The  seventh  Crystal,  and  the  Stair 
of  Gold. 


648 


WILDE. 


SONNET. 

ON  HEARING  THE  DIES  IRM  SUNG  IN 
THE  SISTINE  CHAPEL. 

Nay,  Lord,  not  thus !  white  lilies  in 
the  spring, 
Sad  olive-groves,  or  silver-breasted 

dove. 
Teach  me  more  clearly  of  Thy  life 
and  love 
Than  terrors  of  red  flame  and  thun- 
dering. 
The  empurpled  vines  dear  memories 
of  Thee  bring: 
A  bird  at  evening  flying  to  its  nest. 
Tells  me  of  One  Who  had  no  place 
of  rest: 
I  think  it  is  of  Thee  the  sparrows 

sing. 
Come  rather  on  some  autumn  after- 
noon, 
When  red  and  brown  are  burnished 

on  the  leaves, 
And  the  fields  echo  to  the  gleaner's 
song. 
Come  when  the  splendid  fulness  of 
the  moon 
Looks  down    upon    the    rows,  of 

golden  sheaves, 
And  reap  Thy  harvest  :  we  have 
waited  long. 


IMPRESSION  DU  MATIN. 

The  Thames  nocturne  of  blue  and 

gold 

Changed  to  a  harmony  in  gray : 

A  barge  with  ochre-colored  hay 

Dropt  from  the  wharf:  and  chill  and 

cold 

The  yellow  fog  came  creeping  down 
The  bridges,  till  the  houses'  walls 
med  cliang 
St.  Paul's 
Loomed  like  a  bubble  o'er  the  town. 

Then  suddenly  arose  the  clang 
Of  waking  life;  the  streets  were 

stirred 
With  country  wagons :  and  a  bird 

Flew  to  the  glistening  roofs  and  sang. 


But  one  pale  woman  all  alone. 
The  daylight  kissing  her  wan  hair, 
Loitered  beneath   the    gas-lamps' 
flare. 

With  lips  of  flame  and  heart  of  stone. 


SUNRISE. 

The  sky  is  laced  with  fitful  red, 
The  circling  mists    and    shadows 

fiee. 
The  dawn  is  rising  from  the  sea, 
Like  a  white  lady  from  her  bed. 

And  jagged  brazen  arrows  fall 
Athwart  the  feathers  of  the  night, 
And  a  long  wave  of  yellow  light 
Breaks  silently  on  tower  and  hall, 

And    spreading  wide    across    the 

wold 
Wakes  into  flight  some  fluttering 

bird. 
And   all   the    chestnut   tops    are 

stirred 
And  all  the  branches  streaked  with 

gold. 

SILHOUETTES. 

The  sea  is  flecked  with  bars  of  gray 
The  dull  dead  wind  is  out  of  time, 
And  like  a  withered  leaf  the  moon 

Is  blown  across  the  stormy  bay. 

Etched  clear  upon  the  pallid  sand 
The  black  boat  lies :  a  sailor  boy 
Clambers  aboard  in  careless  joy 

With  laughing   face   and    gleaming 
hand. 

And  overhead  the  curlews  cry. 
Where  through  the  dusky  upland 

grass 
The  young  brown-throated  reapers 
pass. 
Like  silhouettes  against  the  sky. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Tread  lightly,  she  is  near 

Under  the  snow. 
Speak  gently,  she  can  hear 

The  daisies  grow. 


WILDE. 


649 


All  her  bright  golden  hair 
Tarnished  with  rust. 

She  that  was  young  and  fair 
Fallen  to  dust. 

Lily-like,  white  as  snow, 

She  hardly  knew 
She  was  a  woman,  so 

Sweetly  she  grew. 


Coffin-board,  heavy  stone, 

Lie  on  her  breast, 
I  vex  my  heart  alone 

She  is  at  rest. 

Peace,  peace,  she  cannot  hear 

Lyre  or  sonnet, 
All  my  life's  buried  here, 

Heap  earth  upon  it. 


Richard  Henry  Wilde. 


MY  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground  —  to  die. 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see, — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf, 
That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale 
ray! 
Its  hold  is  frail,  its  date  is  brief; 

Restless,  and  soon  to  pass  away ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree,  — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  forme! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand ; 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the 

sea,  — 
But  none,  alas!  shall  mourn  for  me! 


TO  THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

Winged  mimic  of  the  woods !  thou 
motley  fool ! 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  de- 
scribe ? 

Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and 
gibe: 

Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy 
tribe, 

Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's 
school ; 

To  thee,  the  palm  of  scoffing,  we  as- 
cribe, 

Arch-mocker  and  mad  abbot  of  mis- 
rule! 

For  such  thou  art  by  day  —  but  all 
night  long 

Thou  pour' St  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive, 
solemn,  strain, 

As  if  thou  didst,  in  this  thy  moon- 
light song, 

Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques  com- 
plain, — 

Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  sin,  and 
wrong, 

And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat 
again. 


650 


WILLIAMS — WILLIS. 


Helen  Maria  Williams. 


WHILST  THEE  I  SEEK. 

Whilst  Thee  I  seek,  protecting 
Power ! 

Be  my  vain  wishes  stilled ; 
And  may  this  consecrated  hour 

Witli  better  hopes  be  filled. 

Thy  love  the  power  of  thought  be- 
stowed, — 

To  Thee  my  thoughts  would  soar: 
Thy  mercy  o'er  my  life  has  flowed; 

That  mercy  I  adore. 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 

Thy  ruling  hand  I  see ! 
Each  blessing  to  my  soul  most  dear, 

Because  conferred  by  Thee. 

In  every  joy  that  crowns  my  days, 

In  every  pain  I  bear, 
My  heart  shall  find  delight  in  praise, 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  'gladness  wings    my  favored 
hour, 
Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill ; 
Resigned,   when    storms    of    sorrow 
lower. 
My  soul  shall  meet  Thy  will. 

My  lifted  eye,  without  a  tear, 
The  gathering  storm  shall  see ; 


My  steadfast  heart    shall  know  no 
fear; 
That  heart  will  rest  on  Thee. 


SONNET  TO  HOPE. 

Oh,  ever  skilled  to  wear  the  form  we 

love. 
To  bid  the  shapes  of  fear  and  grief 

depart, — 
Come,  gentle  Hope!   with  one   gay 

smile  remove 
The    lasting    sadness  of  an  aching 

heart. 
Thy  voice,  benign  enchantress!    let 

me  hear; 
Say  that  for  me  some  pleasures  yet 

shall  bloom; 
That  Fancy's  radiance,  Friendship's 

precious  tear. 
Shall  soften  or  shall  chase  misfor- 
tune's gloom. 
But  come  not  glowing  in  the  dazzling 

ray 
Which     once    with    dear    illusions 

charmed  my  eye; 
Oh,  strew  no  more,  sweet  flatterer, 

on  my  way 
The    flowers  I  fondly  thought    too 

bright  to  die. 
Visions  less  fair  will  soothe  my  pen- 
sive breast. 
That  asks    not  happiness,  but  longs 

for  rest. 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


TO  A   CITY  PIGEON. 

Stoop  to  my  window,  thou  beautiful 

dove! 
Thy  daily  visits  have  touched  my  love. 
I  watch  thy  coming,  and  list  the  note 
That    stirs   so    low   in   thy   mellow 
throat. 

And  my  joy  is  high 
To  catch  the  glance  of  thy  gentle  eye. 


Why  dost  thou  sit  on   the    heated 
eaves, 

And  forsake  the  wood  with  its  fresh- 
ened leaves  ? 

Why    dost    thou    haunt    the    sultry 
street. 

When  the  paths  of  the  forest  are  cool 
and  sweet  ? 
How  canst  thou  bear 

This  noise  of  people  —  this  sultry  air  ? 


WILLIS. 


651 


Thou  alone  of  the  feathered  race 
Dost  look  imscared  on  the  human 

face; 
Thou  alone,  with  a  wing  to  flee, 
Dost  love  with  man  in  his  haunts 

to  be; 
And  the  "  gentle  dove" 
Has  become  a  name  for  trust  and 

love. 

A  holy  gift  is  thine,  sweet  bird ! 

Thou'rt  named  with  childhood's  ear- 
liest word! 

Thou'rt  linked  with  all  that  is  fresh 
and  wild 

In  the  prisoned  thoughts  of  the  city 
child; 
And  thy  glossy  wings 

Are  its  brightest  image  of  moving 
things. 

It  is  no  light  chance.     Thou  art  set 

apart, 
Wisely  by  Him  who  has  tamed  thy 

heart. 
To  stir  the  love  for  the  bright  and 

fair 
That  else  were  sealed  in  this  crowded 

air; 
I  sometimes  dream 
Angelic  rays  from  thy  pinions  stream. 

Come,    then,    ever,    when    daylight 

leaves 
The    page   I   read,    to    my   humble 

eaves. 
And  wash  thy  breast  in  the  hollow 

spout. 
And  murmur  thy  low  sweet  music 

out! 
I  hear  and  see 
Lessons  of  heaven,  sweet  bird,  in 

thee! 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

X   LOVE    to   look    on   a  scene  like 
this. 
Of  wild  and  careless  play. 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not 
old, 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray ; 


For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's 
heart. 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly. 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore 
years; 
And  they  say  that  I  am  old. 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper, 
Death, 
And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true ;  it  is  very  true ; 

I'm  old,  and  "  I  'bide  my  time:" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like 
this, 
And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on ;  I  am  with  you  there. 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring : 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of   the  daring 
jump, 

And  the  rash  of  the  breathless 
swing. 
I  hide  with  jou  in  the  fragrant  hay. 

And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call. 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time 
shall  come. 
And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go; 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart 
will  fail 
In  treading  its  gloomy  way; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreari- 
ness 
To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  A  "  CHILD 
TIRED  OF  PL  A  F." 

Tired  of  play!  tired  of  play! 

What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong 
day? 

The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee; 

The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  jind 
tree; 

The  doves  have  flown  to  the  shelter- 
ing eaves, 

And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the 
drooping  leaves; 


662 


WILLIS. 


Twilight  gathers,  and  day  is  done  — 
How  hast  thou  spent  it — reStless  one  ? 

Playing  ?  But  what  hast  thou  done 
beside. 

To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide? 

What  promise  of  morn  is  left  un- 
broken ? 

Wliat  kind  word  to  thy  playmate 
spoken  ? 

Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom 
forgiven  ? 

How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 

What  hast  thou  learned  by  field  and 
hill, 

By  greenwood  path,  and  by  singing 
rill  ? 

There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer 

day. 
That  will  find  thee  tired  —  but  not  of 

play? 
And  thou  wilt  lean,  as  thou  leanest 

now, 
With    drooping    limbs    and    aching 

brow. 
And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster 

creep. 
And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep. 
Well  were  it  then  if   thine  aching 

brow 
Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as 


Well  for  thee  if  thy  lip  could  tell 

A  tale  like  this  of  a  day  spent 
well; 

If  thine  open  hand  hath  relieved  dis- 
tress. 

If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  to  wretched- 
ness; 

If  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence. 

And  humbled  thy  heart  with  peni- 
tence; 

If  Nature's  voices  have  spoken  to 
thee 

With  her  holy  meanings  eloquently; 

If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love. 
From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brood- 
ing dove ; 
If  never  a  sad,  low-spoken  word 
Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart 
unheard, — 


Then,  when  the  night  steals  on,  as 

now, 
It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching 

brow. 
And,    with   joy  and   peace  at  the 

thought  of  rest. 
Thou    wilt    sink    to    sleep    on    thy 

mother's  breast. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE   CHAMPION' 
OF  HIS   CLASS. 

Ye've   gathered  to  your  place   of 
prayer 

With  slow  and  measured  tread  : 
Your  ranks  are  full,  your  mates  all 
there  — 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  fled. 
He  was  the  proudest  in  his  strength, 

The  manliest  of  ye  all ; 
Why  lies  he  at  that  fearful  length, 

And  ye  around  his  pall  ? 

Ye  reckon  it  in  days,  since  he 

Strode  up  that  foot-worn  aisle, 
With  his  dark  eye  flashing  gloriously, 

And  his  lip  wreathed  witli  a  smile. 
Oh,  had  it  been  but  told  you  then. 

To  mark  whose  lamp  was  dim  — 
From  out  yon  rank  of  fresh-lipped 
men, 

Would  ye  have  singled  him  ? 

Whose  was  the  sinewy  arm  that  flung 

Defiance  to  the  ring  ? 
Whose  laugh  of  victory  loudest  rung — 

Yet  not  for  gloiying  ? 
Whose  heart,  in  generous  deed  and 
thought, 

No  rivalry  might  brook, 
And  yet  distinction  claiming  not  ? 

There  lies  he  —  go  and  look ! 

On  now  —  his  requiem  is  done. 

The  last  deep  prayer  is  said  — 
On  to  his  burial,  comrades  —  on. 

With  a  friend  and  brother  dead ! 
Slow  —  for  it  presses  heavily  — 

It  is  a  man  ye  bear ! 
Slow,  for  our  thoughts  dwell  wearily 

On  the  gallant  sleeper  there. 


WILLIS. 


653 


Tread  lightly,  comrades!  —  we  have 
laid 

His  dark  locks  on  his  brow  — 
Like    life  —  save  deeper  light   and 
shade : 

We'll  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly — ^^for  'tis  beautiful, 

That  blue- veined  eyelid's  sleep, 
Hiding  the  eye,  death  left  so  dull  — 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 

Eest  now !  his  journeying  is  done  — 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod  — 
Death's  blow  has  felled  your  cham- 
pion— 

He  waiteth  here  his  Gcd. 
Ay —  turn  and  weep  — 'tis  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here  — 
For  the  grave  of  one,  the  best  of  us, 

Is  watered  by  the  tear. 


TO  GIULIA   GRISI. 


AFTER  HEARING  HER    IN 
LENA." 


ANNA  BO- 


When  the  rose  is  brightest, 

Its  bloom  will  soonest  die ; 
When  bums  the  meteor  brightest, 

'Twill  vanish  from  the  sky. 
If  Death  but  wait  until  delight 

O'ermn  the  heart,  like  wine, 
And  break  the  cup  when  brimming 

quite, 
I  die  —  for  thou  hast  poured  to-night 

The  last  drop  into  mine. 


UNSEEN  SPIRITS. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 
'Twas  near  the  twilight-tide  — 

Anil  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walked  she ;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her 
feet, 

And  Honor  charmed  the  air; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  called  her  good  as  fair  — 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 


She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true  — 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all    but 
gold, 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  — 

But  honored  well  are  chamis  to  sell 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more 
fair  — 
A  slight  girl,  lily-pale; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 
To  make  the  spirit  quail  — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked 
forlorn, 
And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray; 
For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved 
in  air. 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way!  — 
But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in 
heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway ! 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old 

South  bell 
The    nest    of    a  pigeon    is    builded 

well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is 

there. 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air : 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street. 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings. 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has 

passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding 

note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mot- 
tled throat; 
There's  a  himian  look  in  its  swelling 

breast. 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly 

crest ; 
And  1  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel- 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 


654 


WILLIS. 


Whatever  is     rung    on    that    noisy 

bell  — 
Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell  — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it 

well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the 

midnight  moon  — 
When  the  sexton  cheerily  rings  for 

noon  — 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morn- 
ing light, 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  "nine 

at  night" — 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the 

Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer ; 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest. 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 
Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street; 
But,  unlike  thee,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  w^orld  and 

soar, 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy 

breast, 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 


FROM  "ABSALOM." 

"Alas!    my  noble  boy!    that    thou 
shouldst  die! 
Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beauti- 
fully fair! 
That  Death  should  settle  in  thy  glo- 
rious eye, 
And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clus- 
tering hair! 


How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent 
tomb? 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom  1 

"  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son!  and  I  am 
chill, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press 
thee! 
How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses 
thrill. 
Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to 
caress  thee, 
And  hear  thy  sweet  '  my  faiher  I ' 
from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom ! 

"  But  death  is  on  thee.     I  shall  hoar 
the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the 
young; 
And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling 
blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft 
winds  flung ;  — 
But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet 
voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom  I 

"And  oh!  when  I  am  stricken,  and 
my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be 
broken. 
How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart, 
Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last 
deep  token ! 
It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gath- 
ering gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom ! 

"And  now,  farewell!    'Tis  hard  to 
give  thee  up. 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slum- 
ber on  thee ; — 
And   thy  dark   sin !  —  Oh !   I  could 
drink  the  cup. 
If  from  this  w^oe  its  bitterness  had 
won  thee. 
May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wan- 
derer, home, 
•    My  lost  boy,  Absalom! " 


WILLSON,  655 


FORCEYTHE   WiLLSON. 

THE  OLD  SERGEANT. 

"  Come  a  little  nearer,  doctor,  —  thank  you,  —  let  me  take  the  cup; 
Draw  your  chair  up,  —  draw  it  closer,  —  just  another  little  sup! 
May  be  you  may  think  I'm  better;  but  I'm  pretty  well  used  up,  — 
Doctor,  you've  done  all  you  could  do,  but  I'm  just  a  going  up! 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much  use  to  try  "  — 
"  Never  say  that,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  he  smothered  down  a  sigh; 
"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say  die!  " 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  doctor,  when  you  come  to  die. 

*'  Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter  ?  "     "  You  were  very  faint,  they  say; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."     ''Doctor,  have  I  been  away  ?  " 
"  Xot  that  anybody  knows  of ! "     "  Doctor,  —  Doctor,  please  to  stay! 
There  is  something  1  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't  have  long  to  stay  I 

*'  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I'm  ready  now  to  go; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted  ?  —  but  it  couldn't  ha'  been  so,  — 
For  as  sure  as  I'm  a  sergeant,  and  was  wounded  at  Shiloh, 
I've  this  very  night  been  back  there,  on  the  old  field  of  Shiloh! 

"  This  is  all  that  I  remember:    The  last  time  the  lighter  came, 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noises  much  the  same, 
He  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  something  called  my  name: 
'  Orderly  Sergeant  —  Kobert  Burton ! '  —  just  that  way  it  called  my  name. 

"  And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  distinctly  and  so  slow, 
Knew  it  couldn't  be  the  lighter,  —  he  could  not  have  spoken  so,  — 
And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir! '  but  I  couldn't  make  it  go; 
For  I  couldn't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  couldn't  make  it  go! 

"  Then  I  thought:  It's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  humbug  and  a  bore: 
Just  another  foolish  grapevine,  —  and  it  won't  come  any  more; 
But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same  way  as  before : 
'  Orderly  Sergeant  —  Robert  Burton ! '  —  even  plainer  than  before: 

"  That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden  burst  of  light, 
And  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  we  stood  that  Sunday  night, 
Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  opposite. 
When  the  river  was  perdition  and  all  hell  was  opposite ! 

*'  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  in  all  its  power, 
And  I  heard  a  bugle  sounding,  as  from  some  celestial  tower; 
And  the  same  mysterious  voice  said:  '  It  is  the  eleventh  hour! 
Orderly  Sergeant —  Robert  Burton  —  it  is  the  eleventh  hour! ' 

"  Doctor  Austin !  what  day  is  this  ?  "  "  It  is  Wednesday  night,  you  know." 
"  Yes,  — to-morrow  will  be  New  Year's,  and  a  right  good  time  below! 
What  time  is  it.  Doctor  Austin  ?  "    "  Nearly  twelve."  "  Then  don't  you  go! 
Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened  —  all  this  —  not  an  hour  ago  ? 


656  WILLSON. 


*'  There  was  where  the  gunboats  opened  on  the  dark  rebellious  host; 
And  where  Webster  semicircled  his  last  guns  upon  the  coast ; 
There  were  still  the  two  log-houses,  just  the  same,  or  else  their  ghost,  — 
And  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  me  over  —  or  its  ghost! 

"  And  the  old  field  lay  before  me  all  deserted  far  and  wide; 
There  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss,  — there  McClemand  met  the  tide; 
There  was  where  stern  Sherman  rallied,  and  where  Hurlburt's  heroes  died, — 
Lower  down,  where  Wallace  charged  them,  and  kept  charging  till  he  died. 

"  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he  was  of  the  canny  kin, 
There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and  where  Rousseau  waded  in ; 
There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we  all  began  to  win,  — 
There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me,  just  as  we  began  to  win. 

"  Now  a  shroud  of  snow  and  silence  over  everything  was  spread; 
And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle  and  the  old  hat  on  my  head, 
I  should  not  have  even  doubted,  to  this  moment,  I  was  dead,  — 
For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow  upon  the  dead ! 

**  Death  and  silence!  —  Death  and  silence!  all  around  me  as  I  sped! 
And  behold,  a  mighty  tower,  as  if  builded  to  the  dead. 
To  the  heaven  of  the  heavens  lifted  up  its  mighty  head. 
Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  heaven  all  seemed  waving  from  its  head ! 

*'  Round  and  mighty-based  it  towered,  —  up  into  the  infinite,  — 
And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a  shaft  so  bright ; 
For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine;  and  a  winding-stair  of  light 
Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound  clear  out  of  sight ! 

"  And,  behold,  as  I  approached  it,  with  a  rapt  and  dazzled  stare,  — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascending  the  great  stair, 
Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke,  of  — '  Halt,  and  who  goes  there! ' 
'  I'm  a  friend,'  I  said,  '  if  you  are.'     '  Then  advance,  sir,  to  the  stair! ' 

"  I  advanced!    That  sentry,  doctor,  was  Elijah  Ballantyne!  — 
First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had  formed  the  line!  — 

*  Welcome,  my  old  sergeant,  welcome !    Welcome  by  that  countersign ! ' 

And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  this  old  cloak  of  mine! 

"  As  he  gi-asped  my  hand,  I  shuddered,  thinking  only  of  the  grave; 
But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward  with  a  bright  and  bloodless  glaive ; 

*  That's  the  way,  sir,  to  headquarters.'  What  headquarters  ?  '  Of  the  brave.' 

'  But  the  great  tower  ? '    '  That,'  he  answered,  '  is  the  way,  sir,  of  the 
brave ! ' 

*'  Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me,  at  his  uniform  of  light; 
At  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so  new  and  bright: 
'  Ah ! '  said  he,  '  you  have  forgotten  the  new  uniform  to-night,  — 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve  o'clock  to-night!' 

**  And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were  sitting  there,  and  I  — 
Doctor,  —  did  you  hear  a  footstep  ?    Hark !  —  God" bless  you  all !    Good-by  I 
Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knapsack,  when  I  die, 
To  my  son  —  my  son  that's  coming,  — he  won't  get  here  till  I  die  ! 


WILSON. 


657 


"  Tell  him  his  old  father  blessed  him  as  he  never  did  before,  — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket "  —  Hark!  a  knock  is  at  the  door!  — 
"Till  the  Union ' '  —  See !  it  opens !  —  * '  Father !  Father !  speak  once  more ! ' ' 
"  Bless  you! "  gasped  the  old,  gray  sergeant,  and  he  lay  and  said  no  more! 


John  Wilson  (Christopher  North.) 


THE  EVENING  CLOUD. 

A  CLOUD  lay  cradled  near  the  setting 

sun, 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided 

snow : 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glo'ry  moving 

on 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake 

below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated 

slow ! 
Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was 

rest; 
While    every    breath    of    eve    that 

chanced  to  blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous 

west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed 

soul, 
To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of 

bliss  is  given; 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to 

roll 
Right  onwards  to  the  golden  gates  of 

heaven, 
Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful 

lies. 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  desti- 
nies. 


[From  the  Isle  of  'Palms.] 
THE  SHIPWRECK. 

But  list!  a  low  and  moaning  sound 
At  distance  heard,  like  a  spirit's  song. 
And  now  it  reigns  above,  around. 
As  if  it  called  the  ship  along. 
The  moon  is  sunk;  and  a  clouded 

gray 
Declares  that  her  course  is  run, 


And  like  a  god  who  brings  the  day, 

Up  mounts  the  glorious  sun. 

Soon  as  his  light  has  warmed  the 

seas. 
From  the  parting  cloud  fresh  blows 

the  breeze ; 
And    that  is  the  spirit  whose  well- 

know^n  song 
Makes  the  vessel  to  sail  in  joy  along. 
No  fears  hath  she ;  her  giant  form 
O'er  wrathful  surge,  through  black- 
ening storm, 
Majestically  calm  would  go 
'Mid    the   deep   darkness  white  as 

snow! 
But   gently  now   the   small    waves 

glide 
Like  playful  lambs  o'er  a  mountain's 

side. 
So  stately  her  bearing,  so  proud  her 

array, 
The  main  she  will  traverse  for  ever 

and  aye. 
Many  ports  will  exult  at  the  gleam 

of  her  mast ;  — 
Hush !  hush !  thou  vain  dreamer !  this 

hour  is  her  last. 
Five  hundred  souls  in  one  instant  of 

dread 
Are  hurried  o'er  the  deck; 
And  fast  the  miserable  ship 
Becomes  a  lifeless  wreck. 
Her  keel  hath  struck  on  a  hidden 

rock, 
Her  planks  are  torn  asunder, 
And  down  come  her  masts  with  a 

reeling  shock, 
And  a  hideous  crash  like  thunder. 
Her  sails  are  draggled  in  the  brine. 

That  gladdened  late  the  skies, 
And  her  pennant,  that  kissed  the  fail 

moonshine, 
Down  many  a  fathom  lies. 


658 


WINTER. 


Her  beauteous  sides,  whose  rainbow 
hues 
Gleamed  softly  from  below, 
And  flung  a  warm  and  sunny  flush 
O'er    the  wreaths    of    murmuring 
snow, 
To  the  coral-rock  are  hurrying  down, 
To  sleep  amid  colors  as  bright  as  their 

own. 
Oh!  many  a  dream  was  in  the  ship 

An  hour  before  her  death ; 
And  sights  of   home  with  sighs  dis- 
turbed 
The  sleeper's  long-drawn  breath. 
Instead  of  the  murmur  of  the  sea. 
The  sailor  heard  the  humming-tree 

Alive  through  all  its  leaves. 
The  hum  of  the  spreading  sycamore 
That  grows  before  his  cottage  door, 
And    the    swallow's    song  in  the 
eaves. 
His  arms  enclosed  a  blooming  boy, 
Who  listened   with  tears  of  sorrow 
and  joy 
To    the    dangers    his    father    had 


And  his  wife  —  by  turns  she  wept 
and  smiled, 


As  she  looked  on  the  father  of  her 
child, 
Returned  to  her  heart  at  last. 
He  wakes    at   the   vessel's    sudden 

roll 
And   the  rush  of  waters  is  in  his 

soul. 
Astounded,  the  reeling  deck  he  paces, 
'Mid    hurrying    forms    and    ghastly 
faces ; 
The  whole  ship's  crew  are  there! 
Wailing  around  and  overhead. 
Brave  spirits  stupefied  or  dead, 
And  madness  and  despair. 

Now  is  the  ocean's  bosom  bare, 
Unbroken  .as  the  floating  air ; 
The  ship  hath  melted  quite  away, 
Like  a  struggling  dream  at  break  of 

day. 
No  image  meets  my  wandering  eye. 
But  the  new-risen  sun  and  the  sunny 

sky. 
Though  the  night-shades  are  gone, 

yet  a  vapor  dull 
Bedims  the  waves  so  beautiful : 
While  a  low  and  melancholy  moan 
Mourns  for  the  glory  that  hath  flown, 


William  Winter. 


THE   WHITE  FLAG. 

Beits^g  poppies  for  a  weary  mind 
That  saddens  in  a  senseless  din. 

And  let  my  spirit  leave  behind 
A  world  of  riot  and  of  sin,  — 

In  action's  torpor  deaf  and  blind. 

Bring  poppies  —  that  I  may  forget! 

Bring  poppies  —  that    I    may  not 
learn! 
But  bid  the  audacious  sun  to  set, 

And  bid  the  peaceful  starlight  bum 
O'er  buried  memory  and  regret. 

Then  will  the  slumberous  grasses  grow 
Above  the  bed  wherein  I  sleep; 

While  winds  I  love  will  softly  blow, 
And  dews  I  love  will  softly  weep. 

O'er  rest  and  silence  hid  below, 


Bring  poppies,  —  for   this    work   is 
vain! 

I  cannot  mould  the  clay  of  life. 
A  stronger  hand  must  grasp  the  rein, 

A  stouter  arm  annul  the  strife. 
A  braver  heart  defy  the  pain. 

Youth  was  my  friend,  —  but  Youth 
had  wings, 

And  he  has  flown  unto  the  day. 
And  left  me,  in  a  night  of  things. 

Bewildered,  on  a  lonesome  way. 
And  careless  what  the  future  brings. 

Let  there  be  sleep !  nor  any  more 
The  noise  of  useless  deed  or  word: 

While  the  free  spirit  hovers  o'er 
A  sea  where  not  a  sound  is  heard— 

A  sea  of  dreams,  without  a  shore. 


WINTER. 


659 


Dark  Angel,  counselling  defeat, 
1  see  thy  mournful,  tender  eyes: 

I  hear  thy  voice,  so  faint,  so  sweet, 
And  vei-y  dearly  should  I  prize 

Thy  perfect  peace,  thy  rest  complete. 

But  is  it  rest  to  vanish  hence, 
To  mix  with  earth,  or  sea,  or  air  ? 

Is  death  indeed  a  full  defence 
Against  the  tyranny  of  care  ? 

Or  is  it  cruellest  pretence  ? 

And,  if  an  hour  of  peace  draws  nigh. 
Shall  we,  who  know  the  arts  of  war, 

Turn  from  the  field  and  basely  fly, 
Nor  take  what  fate  reserves  us  for, 

Because  we  dream  'twere  sweet  to 
die? 

What  shall  the  untried  w^arriors  do. 
If  we,  the  battered  veterans,  fail  ? 

How  strive,  and  suffer,  and  be  true, 
In   storms  that  make    om-  spirits 
quail, 

Except  our  valor  lead  them  through  ? 

Though  for  ourselves  we  droop  and 
tire, 

Let  us  at  least  for  them  be  strong. 
'Tis  but  to  bear  familiar  fire: 

Life  at  the  longest  is  not  long. 
And  peace  at  last  will  crown  desire. 

So  Death,  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak! 

But  I  will  labor  —  and  endure 
All  storms  of    pain  that  time  can 
wreak. 

My  flag  be  wiiite  because  'tis  pure. 
And  not  because  my  soul  is  weak ! 


HOMAGE. 

White  daisies  on  the  meadow  green 
Present  thy  beauteous  form  to  me : 
Peaceful  and  joyful  these  are  seen. 

And  peace  and  joy  encompass  thee. 
I  watch  them,  where  they  dance  and 

shine, 
And  love  them  —  for  their  charm  is 
thine. 


Red  roses  o'er  the  woodland  brook 
liemember  me  thy  lovely  face : 

So  blushing  and  so  fresh  its  look, 
So  wild  and  shy  its  radiant  grace! 

I  kiss  them,  in  their  coy  retreat, 

And    think   of    lips  more  soft  and 
sweet. 

Gold  arrow^s  of  the  merry  mom, 
Shot  swiftly  over  orient  seas; 

Gold  tassels  of  the  bending  corn 
That  ripple  in  the  August  breeze ; 

Thy    wildering  smile,    thy  gloriout 
hair, 

And  all  thy  power  and  state  declare. 

White,   red,  and   gold  — the   awful 
crown 
Of  Tjeauty  and  of  virtue  too ! 
From  what  a  height  those  eyes  look 
down 
On  him  who  proudly  dares  to  sue! 
Yet,  free  from  self  as  God  from  sin, 
Is  love  that  loves,  nor  asks  to  win. 

Let  me  but  love  thee  in  the  flower. 
The    waving   grass,    the    dancing 
wave. 
The  fragrant  pomp  of  garden  bower, 
The  violet  of  the  nameless  grave. 
Sweet     dreams     by     night,    sweet 

thoughts  by  day, — 
And  time  shall  tire  ere  love  decay ! 

Let  me  but  love  thee  in  the  glow 
When  morning  on  the  ocean  shines, 

Or  in  the  mighty  winds  that  blow. 
Snow-laden,  through  the  momitain 
pines  — 

In  all  that's  fair,  or  grand  or  dread, 

And  all  shall  die  ere  love  be  dead  I 


AFTER  ALL. 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 

And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 
Sits,  pale,  in  his  easy-chair, 

While  a  gentle  wind  of  twilight 
Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 


660 


WINTER. 


A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him; 

A  fair  young  head  is  prest, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 
The  faltering  echoes  come, 

Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet 
And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 

Then  the  grandsire  speaks,  in  a  whis- 
per,— 
"  The  end  no  man  can  see; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 
And    we    give     our    prayers    to 
Thee." 

The  violets  star  the  meadows,  . 

The  rosebuds  fringe  the  door. 
And  over  the  grassy  orchard 

The  pink-white  blossoms  jpour. 

But  the  grandsire' s  chair  is  empty, 
The  cottage  is  dark  and  still. 

There's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  bat- 
tle-field. 
And  a  new  one  imder  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 
13y  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone; 

And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 
Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 


THE   QUESTION. 

Because  love's  sigh  is  but  a  sigh. 
Doth  it  the  less  love's  heart  dis- 
close ? 
Because  the  rose  must  fade  and  die, 

Is  it  the  less  the  lovely  rose  ? 
Because  black  night  must  shroud  the 

■    day, 
Shall  the  brave  sun  no  more  be  gay  ? 

Because    chill    autumn    frights    the 
birds, 
Shall  we  distrust  that  spring  will 
come  ? 
Because  sweet  words  are  only  words, 

Shall  love  f orevermore  be  dumb  ? 
Because  our  bliss  is  fleeting  bliss. 
Shall  we  who  love  forbear  to  kiss  ? 


Because  those  eyes  of  gentle  mirth 
Must  some  time  cease  my  heart  to 
thrill, 

Because  the  sweetest  voice  on  earth 
Sooner  or  later  must  be  still. 

Because  its  idol  is  unsure. 

Shall  my  strong  love  the  less  endure  ? 

Ah,    no!    let    lovers    breathe    their 
sighs. 
And  roses  bloom,  and  music  sound. 
And  passion  burn  in  lips  and  eyes, 
And    pleasure's    merry  world    go 
round : 
Let  golden  sunshine  flood  the  sky, 
And  let  me  love,  or  let  me  die ! 


WITHERED  ROSES. 

Not  made  by  worth,  nor  marred  by 
flaw, 
Not  won  by  good,  nor  lost  by  ill, 
Love  is  its  own  and  only  law. 

And  lives  and  dies  by  its  own  will. 
It  was  our  fate,  and  not  our  sin. 
That  we  should  love,  and  love  should 
win. 

Not  bound   by  oath,    nor  stayed  by 
prayer. 
Nor  held  by  thirst  of  strong  desire. 
Love  lives  like  fragi-ance  in  the  air. 

And  dies  as  breaking  waves  expire. 
'Twas  death,  not  falsehood,  bade  us 

part,  — 
The  death  of  love  that  broke  my  heart. 

Not  kind,  as  dreaming  poets  think, 
Nor  merciful,  as  sages  say  — 

Love  heeds    not    where   its  victims 
sink. 
When  once  its  passion  ebbs  away. 

'  Twas  nature  —  it  was  not  disdain  — 

That  made  thee  careless  of  my  pain. 

Not  thralled   by  law,  nor   ruled  by 
right. 
Love  keeps  no  audit  with  the  skies ; 
Its    star,  that  once  is  quenched  in 
night, 
Has  set  —  and  never  more  will  rise. 
My  soul  is  lost,  by  tbee  forgot; 
And  there's  no  heaven  where  thou 
art  not. 


WINTER. 


661 


But  happy  he,  though  scathed  and 
lone, 
"Who  sees  afar  love's  fading  wings — 
Whose  seared  and  blighted  heart  has 
known 
The  splendid  agony  it  brings ! 
No  life  that  is,  no  life  to  be 
Can  ever  take  the  Past  from  me! 

Red  roses  bloom  for  other  lives  — 
Your  withered   leaves   alone   are 
mine ; 
Yet,  not  for  all  that  Time  survives 
Would  I  your   heavenly  gift   re- 
sign — 
Now  cold  and  dead,  once  warm  and 

true, 
The  love  that  lived  and  died  in  you. 


THE  GOLDEN  SILENCE. 

What  though  I  sing  no  other  song  ? 
What    though    I    speak  no  other 
word  ? 
Is     silence     shame?      Is   patience 
wrong  ?  — 
At  least   one    song  of  mine  was 
heard : 

One  echo  from  the  mountain  air. 
One  ocean  munnur,  glad  and  free  — 

One  sign  that  nothing  grand  or  fair, 
In  all  this  world  was  lost  to  me. 

I  will  not  wake  the  sleeping  lyre; 
I   will   not   strain  the  chords    of 
thought : 
The  sweetest  fruit  of  all  desire 
Comes  its  own  way,  and  comes  un- 
sought. 

Though  all  the  bards  of  earth  were 
dead. 

And  all  their  music  passed  away. 
What  nature  wishes  should  be  said 

She'll  find  the  rightful  voice  to  say! 

Her  heart  is  in  the  shimmering  leaf, 
The  drifting  cloud,  the  lonely  sky, 

And  all  we  know  of  bliss  or  grief 
She  speaks,  in  forms  that  cannot 
die. 


The  mountain  peaks  that  shine  afar, 
The  silent  stars,  the  pathless  sea. 

Are  living  signs  of  all  we  are, 
And  types  of  all  we  hope  to  be. 


A  DIRGE. 
TS  MEMORY  OF  POK. 

Cold  is  the  pjean  honor  sings. 
And  chill  is  glory's  icy  breath, 

And  pale  the  garland  memory  brings 
To  grace  the  iron  doors  of  death. 

Fame's  echoing  thunders,  long  and 

loud, 

The  pomp  of  pride  that  decks  the 

pall. 

The  plaudits  of  the  vacant  crowd  — 

One  word  of  love  is  worth  them  all ! 

With  dew  of  gi'ief  our  eyes  are  dim: 
Ah,  bid  the  tear  of  sorrow  start; 

And  honor,  in  ourselves  and  liim. 
The  great  and  tender  human  heart ! 

Through  many  a  night  of  want  and 
woe 
His  frenzied  spirit  wandered  wild. 
Till  kind  disaster  laid  him  low. 
And  love  reclaimed  its  wayward 
child. 

Through  many  a  year  his  fame  has 
grown, — 
Like  midnight,  vast ;  like  starlight, 
sweet,  — 
Till  now  his  genius  fills  a  throne, 
And  homage  makes  his  realm  com- 
plete. 

One  meed  of  justice,  long  delayed. 
One    crowning    grace    his  virtues 
crave ! 
Ah,    take,  thou  great  and  injured 
shade. 
The  love  that  sanctifies  the  grave. 

And  may  thy  spirit,  hovering  nigh. 
Pierce  the  dense  cloud  of  darkness 
through. 
And  know,  with  fame  that  cannot 
die. 
Thou  hast  the  world's  compassion 
too! 


662 


WITHER. 


George  Wither. 


HYMN    FOR   ANNIVERSARY  MAR- 
RIAGE DAYS. 

Lord,  living  here  are  we  — 

As  fast  united  yet 
As  when  our  hands  and  hearts  by 
Thee 

Together  first  were  knit. 
And  in  a  tliankful  song 

Now  sing  we  will  Thy  praise, 
For  that  Thou  dost  as  well  prolong 

Oiu"  loving,  as  our  days. 

Together  we  have  now 

Begun  another  year ; 
But  how  much  time  Thou  wilt  allow 

Thou  makest  it  not  appear. 
We,  therefore,  do  implore 

That  live  and  love  we  may. 
Still  so  as  if  but  one  day  more 

Together  we  should  stay. 

Let  each  of  other's  wealth 

Preserve  a  faithful  care. 
And  of  each  other's- joy  and  health 

As  if  one  soul  we  were. 
Such  conscience  let  us  make, 

Each  other  not  to  grieve, 
As  if  we  daily  were  to  take 

Our  everlasting  leave. 

The  frowardness  that  springs 

From  our  corrupted  kind, 
Or   from    those    troublous   outward 
things 

Which  may  distract  the  mind, 
Permit  Thou  not,  O  Lord, 

Our  constant  love  to  shake  — 
Or  to  disturb  our  true  accord, 

Or  make  our  hearts  to  ache. 

But  let  these  frailties  prove 

Affection's  exercise; 
And  let  discretion  teach  our  love 

Which  wins  the  noblest  prize. 
So  time,  which  wears  away. 

And  ruins  all  things  else, 
Shall  fix  our  love  onThee  for  aye, 

In  whom  perfection  dwells. 


FROM  " poverty:* 

The  works  my  calling  doth  propose. 

Let  me  not  idly  shun ; 
For  he  whom  idleness  undoes, 

Is  more  than  twice  undone : 
If  my  estate  enlarge  I  may. 

Enlarge  my  love  for  Thee ; 
And  though  I  more  and  more  decay, 

Yet  let  me  thankful  be. 

For  be  we  poor  or  be  we  rich, 

If  well  employed  we  are. 
It  neither  helps  nor  hinders  much, 

Things  needful  to  prepare; 
Since  God  disposeth  riches  now, 

As  manna  heretofore. 
The  feeblest  gatherer  got  enow, 

The  strongest  got  no  more. 

Nor  poverty  nor  wealth  is  that 

Whereby  we  may  acquire 
That  blessed  and  most  happy  state, 

Whereto  we  should  aspire ; 
But  if  Thy  Spirit  make  me  wise. 

And  strive  to  do  my  best, 
There  may  be  in  the  worst  of  these 

A  means  of  being  blessed. 

The  rich  in  love  obtain  from  Thee 

Thy  special  gifts  of  grace ; 
The  poor  in  spirit  those  men  be 

Who  shall  behold  Thy  face : 
Lord !  grant  I  may  be  one  of  these, 

Thus  poor,  or  else  thus  rich ; 
E'en  whether  of  the  two  Thou  please, 

I  care  not  greatly  which. 


FOR  A    WIDOWER  OR   WIDOW. 

How  near  me    came   the   hand   of 

death, 
When  at  my  side  he  struck  my  dear, 
And  took  away  the  precious  breath 
Which  quickened  my  beloved  peer ! 
How  helpless  am  I  thereby  made  — 
By  day  how  grieved,  by  night  ho^v 
sad 
And  now  my  life's  delight  is  gone, 
Alas !  how  am  I  left  alone  I 


WITHER. 


663 


The  voice  which  I  did  more  esteem 
Than  music  in  her  sweetest  key, 
Those  eyes  which  unto  me  did  seem 
More  comfortable  than  the  day  — 

Those  now  by  me,  as  they  have 
been ! 

Shall  never  more  be  heard  or  seen ; 
But  what  I  once  enjoyed  in  them 
Shall  seem  hereafter  as  a  dream. 

All  earthly  comforts  vanish  thus  — 
So  little  hold  of  them  have  we 
That  we  from  them  or  they  from  us 
May  in  a  moment  ravished  be ; 
Yet  we  are  neither  just  nor  wise 
If  present  mercies  we  despise, 
Or  mind  not  how  there  may  be  made 
A  thankful  use  of  what  we  had. 

I  therefore  do  not  so  bemoan, 
Though  these  beseeming  tears  I  drop. 
The  loss  of  my  beloved  one 
As  they  that  are  deprived  of  hope; 
But  in  expressing  of  my  grief 
My  heart  receiveth  some  relief, 
And  joyeth  in  the  good  I  had. 
Although  my  sweets  are  bitter  made. 

Lord,  keep  me  faithful  to  the  trust 
Wliich  my  dear  spouse  reposed  in  me ! 
To  him  now  dead  preserve  me  just 
In  all  that  should  performed  be ; 
For  though  our  being  man  and  wife 
Extendeth  only  to  this  life. 
Yet  neither  life  nor  death  should  end 
The  being  of  a  faithf id  friend. 

Those  helps  which  I  through  him  en- 
joyed, 
Let  Thy  continual  aid  supply  — 
That,  though  some  hopes  in  him  are 

void, 
I  always  may  on  Thee  rely ; 
And  whether  I  shall  wed  again, 
Or  in  a  single  state  remain, 


Unto  Thine  honor  let  it  be, 
And  for  a  blessing  mito  me. 


FOR  A  SERVANT. 

Discourage  not  thyself,  my  soul, 
Xor  murmur,  though  compelled  we  be 
To  live  subjected  to  control ! 
When  many  others  may  be  free ; 
For  though  the  pride  of  some  dis 

dains 
Our  mean  and  much  despised  lot, 
We  shall  not  lose  our  honest  pains. 
Nor  shall  our  sufferance  be  forgot. 

To  be  a  servant  is  not  base. 

If  baseness  be  not  in  the  mind. 

For  servants  make  but  good  the  place, 

Whereto  their  Maker  them  assigned  : 

The  greatest  princes  do  no  more, 

And  if  sincerely  I  obey, 

Though  I  am  now  despised  and  poor, 

I  shall  become  as  great  as  they. 

The  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth  waa 

pleased 
A  servant's  form  to  undertake; 
By  His  endurance  I  am  eased, 
And  ser\^e  with  gladness  for  His  sake: 
Though  checked  unjustly  I  should  be. 
With  silence  I  reproofs  will  bear. 
For  much  more  injured  was  He 
Whose    deeds    most  worthy  praises 

were. 

He  was  reviled,  yet  naught  replied. 
And  I  will  imitate  the  same; 
For  though  some  faults  may  be  de- 
nied, 
In  part  I  always  faulty  am : 
Content  with  meek  and  humble  heart, 
I  will  abide  in  my  degree. 
And  act  an  humble  servant's  part, 
Till  God  shall  call  me  to  be  free. 


664 


WOLCOT—  WOLFE, 


John  Wolcot  (Peter  Pindar). 


TO  MY  CANDLE. 


Thou  lone  companion  of  the  spec- 
tred  night  ! 

I  wake  amid  thy  friendly  watchful 
light. 
To  steal  a  precious  hour  from  life- 
less sleep. 

Hark,  the  wild  uproar  of  the  winds ! 
and  hark!  [the  dark, 

Hell's  genius  roams  the  regions  of 
And  swells  the  thundering  horrors 
of  the  deep ! 

From  cloud  to  cloud  the  pale  moon 
hurrying  flies, 

Now  blackened,    and  *now   flashing 

through  the  skies ;  [beam. 

But  all  is  silence  here,  beneath  thy 

I  OAvn  1  labor  for  the  voice  of  praise  — 
For  w^ho  would  sink  in  dull  obliv- 
ion's stream  ? 

Who  would  not  live  in  songs  of  dis- 
tant days  ? 


How  slender  now,  alas!  thy  thread 
of  fire! 

Ah!  falling  —  falling  —  ready  to  ex- 
pire! 

In  vain  thy  struggles,  all  will  soon  be 
o'er. 

At  life  thou  snatchest  with  an  eager 
leap; 

Now  round  I  see  thy  flame  so  feeble 
creep. 
Faint,   lessening,  quivering,  glim- 
mering, now  no  more ! 

Thus  shall  the  suns  of  science  sink 
away, 
And  thus  of  beauty  fade  the  fairest 
flower  — 

For  Where's  the  giant  who  to  Time 
shall  say, 
"Destructive  tyrant,  I  arrest  thy 
power!" 


Charles  Wolfe. 


TO  MARY. 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have 
died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side. 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be : 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  passed 

The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er. 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more ! 

And  still  upon  that  face  T  look. 
And  think  'twill  smile  again; 

And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook. 
That  I  must  look  in  vain ! 

But  when  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  say 
What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid: 


!  And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 
Sweet  Mary !  thou  art  dead ! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay,  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene  — 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been ! 
While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corpse  I 
have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave  — 

And  I  am  now  alone ! 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 
And    I,   perhaps,    may  soothe    thia 
heart, 

In  thinking  too  of  thee: 


WOLFE. 


665 


Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 
Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 

As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 
And  never  can  restore ! 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral 
note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we 
hurried ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell 
shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we 
buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of 
night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turn- 
ing; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty 
light. 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  A\T)und 

him; 

But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his 

rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we 
said. 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sor- 
row; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face 
of  the  dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of   the 
morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  nar- 
row bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pil- 
low, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would 
tread  o'er  his  head. 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  tlie  spirit  that's 

gone,  (him; 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid 


But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him 
sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has 
laid  him! 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour 
for  retiring; 
And  we  heard  the  distant  and  ran- 
dom gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  field  of  liis  fame  fresh 
and  gory ! 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised 
not  a  stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


GO,  FORGET  ME. 

Go,  forget  me  —  why  should  sorrow 

O'er  that  brow  a  shadow  fling  ? 
Go,  forget  me  —  and  to-morrow 

Brightly  smile  and  sweetly  sing. 
Smile  —  thougli  I  shall  not  be  near 

thee, 
Sing,  though  I  shall  never  hear  thee; 
May  thy  soul  with  pleasure  shine 
Lasting  as  the  gloom  of  mine. 

Like  the  sun,  thy  presence  glowing, 

Clothes  the  meanest  things  in  light; 
And  when  thou,  like  him,  art  going, 

Loveliest  objects  fade  in  night. 
All  things  looked  so  bright    about 

thee. 
That   they   nothing    seem    without 
thee; 
By  that  pure  and  lucid  mind 
Earthly  things  were  too,  refined. 

Go,  thou  vision,  wildly  gleaming, 

Softly  on  my  soul  that  fell; 
Go,  for  me  no  longer  beaming  — 
Hope  and  Beauty !  fare  ye  well ! 
Go,  and  all  that  once  delighted 
Take,  and  leave  me  all  benighted  — 
Glory's  burning,  generous  swell, 
Fancy,  and  the  poet's  shell. 


666 


WOODWORTH—  WORDSWORTff, 


Samuel  Woodworth. 


THE  OLD   OAKEN  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes 
of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them 
to  view!  — 

The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep- 
tangled  wildwood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  in- 
fancy knew ! 

The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the 
mill  that  stood  by  it; 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the 
cataract  fell ; 

The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house 
nigh  it;- 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung 
in  the  well  —  [bucket, 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung 
in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed   as 

a  treasure; 
For  often  at    noon,  when  returned 

from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite 

pleasure  — 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature 

can  yield 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands 

that  were  glowing. 


And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bot- 
tom it  fell ! 

Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth 
overflowing, 

And  dripping  wtth  coolness,  it  rose 
from  the  well — 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 
bucket. 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from 
the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy 

brim  to  receive  it. 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to 

my  lips! 
Not    a    full,   blushing    goblet  could 

tempt  me  to  leave  it. 
The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry 

sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved 

habitation. 
The .  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively 

swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plan- 
tation, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs 

in  the  well  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 

bucket. 
The  moss-covered  bucket  that  hangs 

in  the  well  I 


William  Wordsworth. 


[From  Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  Above 
Tintern  Abbey.'] 

THE  SOLACE   OF  NATURE. 

Though  absent  long. 
These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been 

to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's 

eye: 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid 

the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to 

them. 


In   hours   of   weariness,  sensations 

sweet. 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the 

heart ; 
And   passing   even    into  my  purer 

mind. 
With  tranquil  restoration:   feelings 

too 
Of    unremembered    pleasure;    such, 

perhaps, 
As  may  have  had  no  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's 

life. 


THE    OLD    OAKEN     BUCKET. 


Page  666. 


WORDSWORTH. 


667 


His  little,  nameless,  unreraembered 

acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Nor  less, 

1  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another 

gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;  that  blessed 

mood, 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary 

weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened ;  that  serene  and  blessed 

mood. 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead 

us  on,  — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal 

frame. 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human 

blood, 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul: 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the 

power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of 
^      joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

I  have  learned 

To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the 
hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing 
oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

Not  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of 
ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.  And  I  have 
felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the 
joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts:  a  sense  sub- 
lime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  inter- 
fused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting 
suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living 
air. 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind 
of  man: 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all 
thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things. 


iFrom  Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  Above 
Tintern  Abbey.] 

APOSTROPHE   TO   THE  POET'S 
SISTE/i. 

Thou  art  with  me,  here,  upon  the 
banks 

Of  this  fair  river;  thou,  my  dearest 
friend, 

My  dear,  dear  friend,  and  in  thy 
voice  I  catch 

The  language  of  my  former  heart, 
and  read 

My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting 
lights 

Of  thy  wild  eyes.  Oh!  yet  a  little 
while 

May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was 
once, 

My  dear,  dear  sister!  And  this 
prayer  I  make. 

Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  be- 
tray 

The  heart  that  loved  her:  'tis  her 
privilege, 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our 
life,  to  lead 

From  joy  to  joy :  for  she  can  so  in- 
form 

The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  im- 
press 

With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so 
feed 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil 
tongues, 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of 
selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is, 
nor  all 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  dis- 
turb 

Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we 
behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.  Therefore  let 
the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitaiy  walk; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be 
free 

To  blow  against  thee:  and,  in  after 
years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be 
matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 


WOEDSWORl^H. 


Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all    lovely 

forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies; 

oh,  then. 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what 

healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember 

me, 
And    these    my   exhortations!    nor, 

perchance, 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can 

hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild 

eyes  these  gleams 
Of    past  existence,   wilt  thou  then 

forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful 

stream 
We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so 

long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came, 
Unwearied  in  that  service :  rather  say 
With    Avarmer    love;    oh,    with    far 

deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then 

forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many 

years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and 

lofty  cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape, 

were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and 

for  thy  sake. 


[From  The  Excursion.'] 

THE  PROP   OF  FAITH. 

OxE  adequate  support 
For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 
Exists  —  one  only  —  an  assured  belief 
That   the    procession    of    our    fate, 

however 
Sad   or  disturbed,   is  ordered    by  a 

Being 
Of  infinite  benevolence  and  power, 
Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 
All  accidents,   converting   them    to 

good. 
The  darts  of  anguish  fix  not  where 

the  seat 


Of  suffering  hath  been  thoroughly 
fortified 

By  acquiescence  in  the  Will  supreme, 

For  time  and  for  eternity —  by  faith, 

Faith  absolute  in  God,  including 
hope. 

And  the  defence  that  lies  in  bound- 
less love 

Of  His  perfections;  with  habitual 
dread 

Of  aught  unworthily  conceived,  en- 
dured 

Impatiently,  ill-done,  or  left  undone 

To  the  dishonor  of  His  holy  name. 

Soul  of  our  souls,  and  safeguard  of 
the  world. 

Sustain,  Thou  only  canst,  the  sick  of 
heart ! 

Restore  their  languid  spirits,  and  re- 
call 

Their  lost  affections  unto  Thee  and 
Thine! 


[From  The  Excursion.'] 
UNDEVELOPED   GENIUS. 

Oh,   many  are  the    poets   that  are 

sown 
By  Nature !  men  endowed  with  high- 
est gifts  — 
The  vision,  and  the  faculty  divine  — 
Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of 

verse 
(Which  in  the  docile  season  of  their 

youth 
It    was    denied    them    to    acquire, 

through  lack 
Of  culture  and  the  inspiring  aid  of 

books ; 
Or  haply  by  a  temper  too  severe ; 
Or  a  nice  backwardness   afraid    of 

shame), 
Nor,  having  e'er  as  life  advanced, 

been  led 
By  circumstance  to  take  unto  the 

height 
The  measure   of   themselves,  these 

favored  beings, 
All  but  a  scattered  few,  live  out  their 

time. 
Husbanding  that  which  they  possess 

vidtlxin, 


WOBDSWORTH, 


And  go  to  the  grave  unthoiight  of. 

Strongest  minds 
Are  often  tliose  of  whom  the  noisy 

world  hears  least. 


[From  The  Excursion.l 
THE  DEAF  DALESMAN. 

Almost  at  the  root 
Of    that  tall    pine,   the    shadow  of 

whose  bare 
And  slender  stem,  while  here  I  sit  at 

eve. 
Oft  stretches  towards  me,  like  a  long 

straight  path 
Traced  faintly  in   the    greensward; 

there  beneath 
A  plain  blue  stone,  a  gentle  dalesman 

lies, 
From  whom,  in  early  childhood,  was 

withdrawn 
The  precious  gift  of  hearing.      He 

grew  up 
From  year  to  year  in  loneliness  of 

soul; 
And  this  deep  mountain  valley  was 

to  him 
Soundless,  with  all  its  streams.    The 

bird  of  dawn 
Did  never  rouse  this  cottager  from 

sleep 
With  startling  summons ;  nor  for  his 

delight 
The  vernal  cuckoo  shouted ;  not  for 

him 
Murmured  the  laboring  bee.     When 

stormy  winds 
Were  working  the  broad  bosom  of 

the  lake 
Into  a  thousand  thousand  sparkling 

waves, 
Rocking  the  trees,  or  driving  cloud 

on  cloud 
Along  the  sharp  edge  of  yon  lofty 

crags, 
The  agitated  scene  before  his  eye 
Was  silent  as  a  picture :  evennore 
Were  all  things  silent,  wheresoe'er 

he  moved ; 
Yet,  by  the  solace  of  his  own  pure 

thoughts 
Upheld,  he  duteously  pursued    the 

round 


Of  rural  labors ;  the  steep  mountain- 
side 
Ascended,  with  his  staff  and  faithful 

dog; 
The  plough  he  guided,  and  the  scythe 

he  swayed ; 
And  the  ripe  com  before  his  sickle 

fell 
Among    the    jocund    reapers.      For 

himself. 
All  watchful  and  industrious  as  he 

was, 
He  wrought  not;  neither  flock  nor 

field  he  owned ; 
No  wish  for  wealth  had  place  within 

his  mind ; 
Nor  husband's  love,  nor  father's  hope 

or  care. 
Though  born  a  younger  brother,  need 

was  none 
That  from  the  floor  of  his  paternal 

home 
He  should  depart  to  plant  himself 

anew  ; 
And  when,  mature  in  manhood,  he 

beheld 
His  parents  laid  in  earth,  no  loss  en- 
sued 
Of  rights  to  him;  but  he  remained 

well  pleased. 
By  the  pure  bond  of    independent 

love. 
An  inmate  of  a  second  family, 
The  fellow-laborer  and  friend  of  him 
To  whom  the  small  inheritance  had 

fallen. 
Nor  deem  that  his  mild  presence  was 

a  w^eiglit 
That    pressed    upon    his    brother's 

house,  for  books 
Were  ready  comrades  whom  he  could 

not  tire, 
Of  whose  society  the  blameless  man 
Was  never  satiate.      Their  familiar 

voice, 
Even    to    old    age,    with    unabated 

charm 
Beguiled  his  leisure  hours,  refreshed 

his  thoughts; 
Beyond  its  natural  elevation,  raised 
His  introverted  spirit,  and  bestowed 
Upon  his  life  an  outward  dignity 
Which  all  acknowledged.     The  dark 

winter  night, 


670 


WORDSWORTH. 


The  stormy  day,  had  each  its  own 

resource ; 
Song  of  the  muses,  sage  historic  tale, 
Science  severe,  or  word  of  Holy  Writ 
Announcing  immortality  and  joy 
To  the  assembled  spirits  of  the  just. 
From  imperfection  and  decay  secure. 
Thus  soothed  at  home,  thus  busy  in 

the  held, 
To  no  perverse  suspicion  he    gave 

way, 
No  languor,  peevishness,   nor  vain 

complaint : 
And  they,  who  were  about  him,  did 

not  fail 
In  reverence,  or  in  courtesy;  they 

prized 
His  gentle  manners ;  and  his  peaceful 

smiles, 
The  gleams  of  his  slow-varying  coun- 
tenance, 
Were  met  with  answering  sympathy 

and  love. 

At  length,  when  sixty  years  and 
five  were  told, 

A  slow  disease  insensibly  consumed 

The  powers  of  nature;  and  a  few 
short  steps 

Of  friends  and  kindred  bore  him 
from  his  home 

(Yon  cottage  shaded  by  the  woody 
crags) 

To  the  profounder  stillness  of  the 
grave. 

Nor  was  his  funeral  denied  the  grace 

Of  many  tears,  virtuous  and  thought- 
ful grief; 

Heart-sorrow  rendered  sweet  by  grat- 
itude. 

And  now  that  monumental  stone  pre- 
serves 

His  name,  and  unambitiously  relates 

How  long,  and  by  what  kindly  out- 
ward aids, 

And  in  what  pure  contentedness  of 
mind, 

The  sad  privation  was  by  him  en- 
dured. 

And  yon  tall  pine-tree,  whose  com- 
posing sound 

Was  wasted  on  the  good  man's  living 
ear. 

Hath  now  its  own  peculiar  sanctity; 


And,  at  the  touch  of  every  wandei* 

ing  breeze. 
Murmurs,  not  idly,  o'er  his  peaceful 

grave. 


FROM 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMOR- 
TALITY." 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forget- 
ting: 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's 
star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  Cometh  from  afar ; 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we 
come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Pleaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to 
close 
Upon  the  growing  boy. 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence 
it  flows. 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from 
the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die 

away. 
And  fade  into,  the  light  of  common 
day. 

O  joy !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
"What  was  so  fugitive ! 
The  thought  of  pur  past  years  in  me 

doth  breed 
Perpetual  benedictions:  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be 

blessed; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of    childhood,   whether  busy  or  at 

rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering 
in  his  breast: 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 


WORDSWORTH. 


671 


But  for  those  obstinate  question- 
ings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Black  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High    instincts,    before    which    our 

mortal  natiu'e 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  sur- 
prised ! 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our 

day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our 
seeing; 
Uphold    us  —  cherish — and    have 
power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the 

being 
Of  the  eternal  silence:  trutlis  that 
wake, 
To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad 
endeavor. 
Nor  man  nor  boy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 
Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immor- 
tal sea 
W^hich  brought  us  liither; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the 

shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling 
evermore. 


TO  A    YOUNG  LADY, 

IVHO  HAD  BEEN   REPROACHED  FOR  TAKING  LONG 
WALKS  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Dear  child  of  nature,  let  them 

rail! 
-  There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 
A  harbor  and  a  hold. 
Where  thou,  a  wife  and  friend,  shalt 

see 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 
A  light  to  young  and  old. 


There,  healthy  as  a  shepherd-boy, 
As  if  thy  heritage  were  joy. 
And  pleasure  were  thy  trade. 
Thou,  while  thy  babes  around  thee 

cling, 
Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 
A  woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not 

die, 
Nor  leave  thee  when  gray  hairs  are 

nigh, 
A  melancholy  slave ; 
But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  niglit, 
Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

I  WANDERED  loucly  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and 

hills. 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host  of  golden  daffodils; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 
Tossing    their   heads    in    spriglitly 
dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but 

they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay. 
In  such  a  jocund  company : 
I  gazed  and  gazed,  but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had 

brought. 

For  oft  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure 

fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


672 


WORDSWORTH. 


TWILIGHT. 

Hail,   Twilight,    sovereign   of    one 

peaceful  hour! 
Not  dull  art  thou  as  undiscerning 

Night; 
But  studious  only  to  remove  from 

sight 
Day's  mutable  distinctions.    Ancient 


power 


Thus  did  the  waters  gleam,  the 
mountains  lower 

To  the  rude  Briton,  when,  in  wolf- 
skin vest 

Here  roving  wild,  he  laid  him  down 
to  rest 

On  the  bare  rock,  or  through  a  leafy 
bower 

Looked  ere  his  eyes  were  closed.  By 
him  was  seen 

The  selfsame  vision  which  we  now 
behold, 

At  thy  meek  bidding,  shadowy  pow- 
er, brought  forth ; 

These  mighty  barriers,  and  the  gulf 
between ; 

The  floods,  —  the  stars;  a  spectacle 
as  old 

As  the  beginning  of  the  heavens  and 
earth! 


TO  SLEEP. 

A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass 

One  after  one;  the  sound  of  rain, 

and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds, 

and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water, 

and  pure  sky ; 
I've  thought  of  all  by  turns;  and  still 

I  lie 
Sleepless;  and  soon  the  small  bird's 

melodies 
Must  hear,  first  utter' d  from  my  or- 
chard trees ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy 

cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights 

more,  I  lay. 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep!  by 

any  stealth : 


So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away : 

Without  thee  what  is  all  the  mor- 
ning's wealth? 

Come,  blessed  barrier  betwixt  day 
and  day, 

Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and 
joyous  health! 


LUCY. 


She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove; 

A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to 
praise. 
And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half-hidden  from  the  eye ! 

—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could 
know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh! 

The  difference  to  me ! 


TO  A  DISTANT   FRIEND. 

Why  art  thou  silent !  Is  thy  love  a 
plant 

Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacher- 
ous air 

Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so 
fair? 

Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to 
grant  ? 

Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been 

vigilant. 
Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing 

care  — 
The  mind's  least    generous  wish  a 

mendicant 
For  nought  but  what  thy  happiness 

could  spare. 

Speak! — though  this  soft  warm 
heart,  once  free  to  hold 

A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine 
and  mine, 

Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary 
cold 


WORDSWORTH, 


673 


Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  fill'd  with 
snow 

'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglan- 
tine— 

Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their 
end  may  know ! 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the 

sky! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where 

cares  abound  ? 
Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart 

and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy 

ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into 

at  will, 
Tliose    quivering    wings    composed, 

that  music  still ! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  be- 
yond. 

Mount,  daring  warbler !  —  that  love- 
prompted  strain 

—  'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-fail- 
ing bond  — 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the 
plain : 

Yet  might' st  thou  seem,  proud  privi- 
lege! to  sing 

All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady 
wood ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine. 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the 
world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  witli  instinct  more  di- 
vine; 

Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never 
roam  — 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven 
and  Home ! 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 

A  si^iPLE  child 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb. 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 


I  met  a  little  cottage  girl: 
She  was  eight  yeai-s  old,  she  said; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  cuii 
That  cluster' d  round  hei:  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair; 
—  Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

''  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ?'' 

"How  many?    Seven  in  all,"  she 

said. 
And  wondering  look'd  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they?  I  pray  you 

tell." 
She  answer' d,  "  Seven  are  we; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell. 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother; 
And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 
Yet  ye  are  seven !  —  I  pray  you  tell, 
Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be  ?" 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 
"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie. 
Beneath  the  clmrchyard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 
Your  limbs  they  are  alive; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may 

be  seen," 
The  little  maid  replied, 
"  Twelve  steps  or    more    from    my 

mother's  door. 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 

My  stockings  there  I  often  knit. 
My  kerchief  there  I  hem; 
And  there  upon  tlie  ground  I  sit — 
I  sit  and  sing  to  them, 


674 


WORDSWORTH. 


And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 
When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 
And  eat  my  supper  there. 

The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane ; 
In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain; 
And  then  she  went  away. 

So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid ; 
And  all  the  summer  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  play'd, 
My  brother  John  and  I. 

And  when  the  ground  was  white  with 

snow, 
And  I  could  run  and  slide. 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go. 
And  he  lies  by  her  side. 

"  How  many  are  you  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ?  " 
The  little  maiden  did  reply, 
"  O  master!  we  are  seven! 

"But  they  are  dead;  those  two  are 

dead! 
Their  spirits  are  in  Heaven!" 
'Twas  throwing  words  away:  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 
And  said,"  Nay,  we  are  seven!  " 


SHE    WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DE- 
LIGHT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she   gleamed    upon  my 

sight; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair. 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From    May-time    and    the    cheerful 

dawn; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay, 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too! 
Her  household    motions    light    and 
free, 


And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet.; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food. 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and 
smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death; 
The    reason    firm,    the    temperate 

will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and 

skill; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


THY  ART  BE  NATURE. 

A  POET !  —  He  hath  put  his  heart  to 

school, 
Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon 

the  staff 
Which  art  hath  lodged  within  his 

hand ;  must  laugh 
By  precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by 

rule! 
Thy  art  be  nature;  the  live  current 

quaff, 
And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant 

pool. 
In  fear  that  else,  when  critics  grave 

and  cool 
Have  killed  him,  scorn  should  write 

his  epitaph. 
How    does    the    meadow-flower    its 

bloom  unfold ! 
Because  the  lovely  little   flower    is 

free 
Down  to  its  root,  and  in  this  free- 
dom bold ; 
And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  forest- 
tree 
Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  fqrmal 

mould. 
But  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 


WORDSWORTH. 


m' 


SCORN  NOT  THE  SONNET. 

Scorn  not  the  sonnet.    Critic,  you 

have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honors:  with  this 

key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the 

melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Pe- 
trarch's wound; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso 

sound;  [grief; 

Camoens  soothed  with  it  an  exile's 
The  sonnet  glitteied  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante 

crowned 
His  visionary    brow;   a  ^low-worm 

lamp, 
It  cneeied  mild  Spenser,  called  from 

fairy-land 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and, 

when  a  damp  [hand 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his 
The  thing  became  a  trumpet,  whence 

he  blew 
Soul-animating    strains  —  alas,    too 

few! 


EVENING. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and 
free. 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 

Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad 
sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the 
sea. 

Listen !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion 
make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  child!  dear  girl,  that  walkest 
with  me  here ! 

If  thou  appearest  untouched  by  sol- 
emn thought. 

Thy  nature  is  not,  therefore,  less 
divine : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all 
the  year, 

And  worshippest  at  the  temple's  in- 
ner shrine, 

God  being  with  ihee  when  we  knew 
it  not. 


THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH   US. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late 

and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste 

our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a 

sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the 

moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all 

hours 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleep- 
ing Howers ; 
For  tliis^  for  everything,  we  are  out 

of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God!  I'd 

rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant 

lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me 

less  forlorn 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from 

the  sea,  [horn. 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed 


WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show 

more  fair : 
Diill  w  ould  he  be  of  soul  who  could 

pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment 

wear  [bare, 

The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and 

temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky, 
All    bright    and    glittering   in   the 

smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or 

hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so 

deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet 

will: 
Dear  God!    the    very  houses   seem 

asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying 

still! 


676 


WOTTON. 


TO   THE   CUCKOO. 

0  BLITHE  new-comer !    I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice: 

0  cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass, 
Thy  loud  note  smites  my  ear ! 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near ! 

1  hear  thee  babbling  to  the  vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers; 
And  unto  me  thou  bringest  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice    welcome,     darling    of    the 

spring ! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 
A  voice,  a  mystery. 


The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy 

days 
I  listened  to ;  that  cry 
Which  made  me   look  a  thousand 

ways 
In  bush  and  tree  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love*, 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen ! 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  bird !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place; 
That  is  fit  home  for  thee ! 


Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


A  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill!* 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth 

raise 
Or  vice ;  who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given    by 

praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good : 


Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed. 
Whose    conscience  is  his  strong  re^ 

treat : 
Whose    state  can   neither  flatterers 

feed. 
Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great; 

AVho  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend : 

—  This  man  is  freed    from    servile 

bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands: 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


WYATT—  YOUNG. 


677 


Sir  Thomas  Wyatt. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  ONE  HE 
WOULD  LOVE. 

A   FACE    that    should    content    me 

wondrous  well, 
Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to 

behold ; 
With  gladsome  cheer,  all  grief  for  to 

expel ; 
With  sober  looks  so  would  I  that 

it  should 
Speak  without  words,  such  words  as 

none  can  tell ; 
The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped 

gold. 
With  wit,  and  these,  might  chance  I 

might  be  tied. 
And  knit  again  the  knot  that  should 

not  slide. 


A  LOVER'S  PRATER. 

Disdain  me  not  without  desert, 
Nor  leave  me  not  so  suddenly; 

Since  well  ye  wot  that  in  my  heart 
I  mean  ye  not  but  honestly. 

Refuse  me  not  without  cause  why. 
Nor  think  me  not  to  be  unjust ; 

Since  that  by  lot  of  fantasy, 
This  careful  knot   needs    knit 
must. 


Mistrust  me  not,  though  some  there  be 
That  fain  would  spot  my  steadfast- 
ness. 

Believe  them  not,  since  that  ye  see 
The  proof  is  not  as  they  express. 

Forsake  me  not,  till  I  deserve ; 

Nor  hate  me  not,  till  I  offend, 
Destroy  me  not,  till  that  I  swerve ; 

But  since  ye  know  wliat  I  intend, 

Disdain  me  not,  that  am  your  own ; 

lief  use  me  not  that  am  so  true; 
Mistrust  me  not,  till  all  be  known; 

Forsake  me  not  now  for  no  new. 


PLEASURE  MIXED    WITH  PAIN, 

Venomous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp 

and  keen 
Bear  flowers  we  see,  full  fresh  and 

fair  of  hue : 
Poison  is  also  put  in  medicine, 
And  imto  man  his  health  doth  oft 

renew. 
The  fire  that  all  things  eke  consu- 

meth  clean. 
May  hurt  and  heal:  then  if  that 

this  be  true, 
I  trust  some  time  my  harm  may  be 

my  health. 
Since  every  woe  is  joined  with  some 

wealth. 


Edward  Young. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  I. 

PROCRASTINATION,  AND  FORGET- 
FULNESS   OF  DEATH. 

All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man. 
And  that  through  every  stage :  when 


young,  indeed, 
11  ' 


In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly 
rest, 


Unanxious  for  ourselves;  and  only 

wish. 
As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were 

more  wise. 
At  thirty  man   suspects  himself   a 

fool; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his 

plan; 
At  fifty,  chides  his  infamous  delay. 
Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  re* 

solve; 


678 


TOUNO. 


In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 
Kesolves,  and  re-resolves;  then  dies 

the  same. 
And  why  ?    Because  he  thinks  him- 
self immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal,  but 

themselves ; 
Themselves,    when    some    alarming 

shock  of  fate 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts 

the  sudden  dread: 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the 

wounded  air. 
Soon  close ;  where  passed  the  shaft, 

no  trace  is  found. 
As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky 

retains; 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the 

keel; 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought 

of  death. 


[From  Night  ThoiigJits.] 

NIGHT   II. 

TIME,  ITS   USE  AND  MISUSE. 

Time,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides 

his  wings. 
And  seems  to  creep,  decrepit  with 

his  age: 
Behold  him,   when  past   by;    what 

then  is  seen, 
But  his  broad  pinions  swifter  than 

the  winds  ? 

We  waste,   not  use,   our  time:   we 

breathe,  not  live. 
Time  wasted  is  existence,  used    is 

life: 

We  push  time  from  us,  and  we  wish 

him  back ; 
Lavish  of  lustrums,  and  yet  fond  of 

life; 
Life  we  think  long,  and  short ;  death 

seek,  and  shun ; 
Body  and  soul,  like  peevish  man  and 

wife. 
United  jar,  and  yet  are  loth  to  part. 
Oh,  the  dark  days  of  vanity!  while 

here. 
How   tasteless!    and    how   terrible, 

when  gone ! 


Gone?  they  ne'er  go;  when  past, 
they  haunt  us  still : 

The  spirit  walks  of  every  day  de- 
ceased ; 

And  smiles  an  angel,  or  a  fury 
frowns. 

Xor  death,  nor  life,  delight  us.  If 
time  past. 

And  time  possessed,  both  pain  us, 
what  can  please  ? 

That  which  the  Deity  to  please  or- 
dained, 

Time  used.  The  man  who  conse- 
crates his  hours 

By  vigorous  effort,  and  an  honest 
aim. 

At  once  he  draws  the  sting  of  life 
and  death: 

He  walks  with  nature ;  and  her  paths 
are  peace. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  II. 

JO  r  TO  BE  SHARED. 

N'atuee,  in  zeal  for  human  amity. 
Denies,  or  damps,  an  undivided  joy. 
Joy  is  an  import ;  joy  is  an  exchange ; 
Joy  flies  monopolists :  it  calls  for  two ; 
Rich  fruit!    Heaven-planted!   never 

plucked  by  one. 
Needful  auxiliars  are  our  friends,  to 

give 
To  social  man  true  relish  of  himself. 
Full  on  ourselves,  descending  in  a 

line, 
Pleasure's  bright  beam  is  feeble  in 

delight : 
Delight  intense  is  taken  by  rebound ; 
Reverberated  pleasures  fire  the  breast. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT   II. 

CONSCIENCE. 

O  TREACHEROUS  Conscience!  while 
she  seems  to  sleep 

On  rose  and  myrtle,  lulled  with  sy- 
ren song; 

While  she  seems  nodding  o'er  her 
charge,  to  drop 

On  headlong  appetite  the  slackened 
rein, 


TOUNQ, 


679 


And  give  us  up  to  license,  unrecalled, 

Unmarked;  see,  from  behind  her 
secret  stand. 

The  sly  informer  minutes  every  fault, 

And  her  dread  diary  with  horror  fills. 

Not  the  gross  act  alone  employs  her 
pen; 

She  reconnoitres  fancy's  airy  band, 

A  watchful  foe !  the  formidable  spy. 

Listening;  o'erhears  the  whispers  of 
our  camp ; 

Our  dawning  purposes  of  heart  ex- 
plores, 

And  steals  our  embryos  of  iniquity. 

As  all-rapacious  usurers  conceal 

Their  doomsday-book  from  all-con- 
suming heirs; 

Thus,  with  indulgence  most  severe, 
she  treats 

Us  spendthrifts  of  inestimable  time; 

Unnoted,  notes  each  moment  misap- 
plied ; 

In  leaves  more  durable  than  leaves 
of  brass. 

Writes  om-  whole  history. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.'] 

NIGHT  II. 

EFFECT  OF   CONTACT  WITH   THE 
WORLD. 

Virtue,  for  ever  frail,  as  fair,  below. 

Her  tender  nature  suffers  in  the 
crowd. 

Nor  touches  on  the  world,  without  a 
stain : 

The  world's  infectious;  few  bring 
back  at  eve. 

Immaculate,  the  manners  of  the 
morn. 

Something  we  thought,  is  blotted; 
we  resolved. 

Is  shaken;  we  renounced,  returns 
again. 

Each  salutation  may  slide  in  a  sin 

Unthought  before,  or  fix  a  former 
flaw. 

Nor  is  it  strange:  light,  motion,  con- 
course, noise. 

All,  scatter  us  abroad.  Thought,  out- 
ward-bound, 

Neglectful  of  her  home  affairs,  flies 
off 


In  fume  and  dissipation,  quits  her 

charge, 
And  leaves  the  breast  unguarded  to 

the  foe. 

Present    example   gets    within    our 

guard. 
And  acts  with  double  force,  by  few 

repelled. 
Ambition  fires  ambition;  love  of  gain 
Strikes,  like  a  pestilence,  from  breast 

to  breast: 
Riot,    pride,    perfidy,    blue    vapors 

breathe ; 
And  inhumanity  is  caught  from  man, 
From  smiling  man.     A  slight,  a  sin- 
gle glance, 
And    shot   at    random,    often    has 

brought  home 
A  sudden    fever  to   the    throbbing 

heart. 
Of  envy,  rancor,  or  Impure  desire. 
We  see,  we  hear,  with  peril;  safety 

dwells 
Remote  from  multitude;  the  world's 

a  school 
Of    wrong,    and    what    proficients 

swarm  around 
We  must,  or  imitate,  or  disapprove; 
Must  list  as    their  accomplices,   or 

foes. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  II. 

THE    CROWNING    DISAPPOINT- 
MENT. 

So  prone  our  hearts  to  whisper  what 

we  wish, 
'Tis  later  with  the  wise  than  he's 

aware. 

And  all  mankind  mistake  their  time 

of  day; 
Even  age  itself.      Fresh  hopes  are 

hourly  sown . 
In  furrowed  brows.     To  gentle  life's 

descent 
We  shut  our  eyes,  and  think  it  is  a 

plain. 
We  take  fair  days  in  winter,  for  the 

spring; 


680 


TOUNG. 


And  turn  our  blessings  into  bane. 
Since  oft 

Man  must  compute  that  age  he  can- 
not feel, 

He  scarce  believes  he's  older  for  his 
years.  [store 

Thus,  at  life's  latest  eve,  we  keep  in 

One  disappointment  sure,  to  crown 
the  rest; 

The  disappointment  of  a  promised 
hour. 


IFrom  Night  Thoughts.} 

NIGHT  II. 

INSUFFICIENCY  OF   THE    WORLD. 

'Tis  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our 
past  hours; 

And  ask  them,  what  report  they  bore 
to  heaven ; 

And  how  they  might  have  borne 
more  welcome  news. 

Their  answers  form  what  men  expe- 
rience call ; 

If  wisdom's  friend,  her  best;  if  not, 
worst  foe. 

Oh,  reconcile  them!  Kind  experi- 
ence cries, 

"  There's  nothing  here,  but  what  as 
nothing  weighs : 

The  more  our  joy,  the  more  we  know 
it  vain ; 

-And  by  success  are  tutored  to  de- 
spair." 

Nor  is  it  only  thus,  but  must  be  so. 

Wlio  knows  not  this,  though  gray,  is 
still  a  child ; 

Loose  then  from  earth  the  grasp  of 
fond  desire, 

Weigh  anchor,  and  some  happier 
clime  explore. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  II. 

EFFORT,  THE  GAUGE   OF   GREAT- 
NESS. 

Vo  blank,  no  trifle,  nature  made,  or 

meant. 
Virtue,  or  purposed  virtue,  still  be 

thine: 


This  cancels  thy  complaint  at  once; 

this  leaves 
In  act  no  trifle,   and  no  blank  in 

time. 
This  greatens,  fills,  immortalizes,  all ; 
This,  the  blest  art  of  turning  all  to 

gold; 
This,  the  good  heart's  prerogative, 

to  raise 
A  royal  tribute    from    the    poorest 

hours : 
Immense   revenue!    every   moment 

pays. 
If  nothing  more  than  purpose  in  thy 

power ; 
Thy  purpose  firm  is  equal  to    the 

deed : 
Who  does  the  best  his  circumstance 

allows. 
Does  well,  acts  nobly;  angels  could 

no  more. 
Our  outward  act,  indeed,  admits  re- 
straint; 
'Tis  not  in  things  o'er  thought  to 

domineer. 
Guard  well  thy  thought ;  our  thoughts 

are  heard  in  Heaven. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.'] 

NIGHT  II. 
THE  END    OF    THE    VIRTUOUS. 

The  chamber  where  the  good  man 

meets  his  fate. 
Is  privileged  beyond    the    common 

walk 
Of  virtuous  life,  quite  in  the  verge 

of  heaven. 

A  death-bed's  a  detector  of  the  heart. 
Here,  tired  dissimulation  drops  her 

mask ; 
Through  life's  grimace,  that  mistress 

of  the  scene ! 
Here,  real  and  apparent  are  the  same. 
You  see  the  man;  you  see  his  hold 

on  heaven. 

Whatever  farce   the   boastful    hero 

plays. 
Virtue  alone  has  majesty  in  death ; 
And  greater  still,  the  more  the  tyrant 

frowns. 


YOUNG, 


681 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGUT  III. 

THE  OTHER  LIFE  THE  END    OF 
THIS. 

"  He  sins  against  this  life  who  slights 

the  next." 
What  is  this  life?'    How  few  their 

favorite  know! 
Fond  in  the  dark,  and  blind  in  our 

embrace, 
By  passionately  loving  life  we  make 
Loved  life  unlovely;  hugging  her  to 

death. 
We  give  to  time  eternity's  regard; 
And,  dreaming,  take  our  passage  for 

our  port. 
Life  has  no  value  as  an  end,  but 

means ; 
An  end,  deplorable!  a  means,  divine! 
When  'tis  our  all,  'tis  nothing;  worse 

than  nought; 
A  nest  of  pains;  when  held  as  noth- 
ing, much: 
Like    some  fair   humorists,   life    is 

most  enjoyed 
When    courted    least;   most  worth, 

when  disesteemed  : 
Then  'tis  the  seat  of  comfort,  rich 

in  peace; 
In  prospect,  richer  far;  important! 

B.^yiu\ ! 
Not  to  be  mentioned,  but  with  shouts 

of  praise; 
Not  to  be  thought  on,  but  with  tides 

of  joy; 
The  mighty  basis  of  eternal  bliss ! 


[From  Night  Thoughts.'] 

NIGHT  III. 

THE  GLORY  OF  DEATH. 

Death  but  entombs  the  body;  life 
the  soul. 

Death  has  no  dread,  but  what  frail 

life  imparts ; 
Nor  life  true    joy,  but  what    kind 

death  improves. 

Death,  that  absolves    my  birth;   a 

curse  without  it! 
Jtich  death,  that  realizes  all  my  cares, 


Toils,  virtues,  hopes;  without  it  a 
chimera !  [joy : 

Death,  of  all  pain  the  period,  not  of 

Joy's  source,  and  subject,  still  sub- 
sist unhurt. 

One,  in  my  soul:  and  one,  in  her 
great  Sire. 

Death  is  the  crown  of  life; 
Were  death  denied,  poor  man  would 

live  in  vain ; 
Were  death  denied,  to  live  would  not 

be  life ; 
Were  death  denied,  even  fools  would 

wish  to  die. 
Death  wounds  to  cm-e:  we  fall;  we 

rise;  we  reign; 
Spring  from  our  fetters,  fasten  in  the 

skies;  [sight: 

Where  blooming  Eden  withers  in  our 
Death  gives  us  more  than  was  in 

Eden  lost. 
This  king  of  terrors  is  the  prince  of 

peace. 
When  shall  I  die  to  vanity,  pain, 

death  ? 
When  shall  I  die  ?  When  shall  I  live 

for  ever  ? 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  III. 

CRUELTY. 

Man  is  to  man  the  sorest,  surest  ill, 

A  previous  blast  foretells  the  rising 
stonn ; 

O'erwhelming  turrets  threaten  ere 
they  fall; 

Volcanoes  bellow  ere  they  disem- 
bogue ; 

Earth  trembles  ere  her  yawning  jaws 
devour; 

And  smoke  betrays  the  wide-consum- 
ing fire : 

Ruin  from  man  is  most  concealed 
when  near,  [blow. 

And  sends  the  dreadful  tidings  in  the 

Is  this  the  flight  of  fancy  ?  Would 
it  were! 

Heaven's  Sovereign  saves  afll  beings, 
but  himself. 

That  hideous  sight,  a  naked  humaa 
heart. 


682 


YOUNG, 


[From  Night  Thoughts.'] 

XTGHT  IV. 

FALSE   TERRORS  IN  VIEW  OF 
DEATH. 

Why  start  at  death !  Where  is  he  ? 
Death  arrived, 

Is  past;  not  come,  or  gone,  he's 
never  here. 

Ere  hope,  sensation  fails;  black- 
boding  man 

Receives,  not  suffers,  death's  tremen- 
dous blow. 

The  knell,  the  shroud,  the  mattock, 
and  the  grave ; 

The  deep,  damp  vault,  the  darkness, 
and  the  worm ;  [eve, 

These  are  the  bugbears  of  a  winter's 

The  terrors  of  the  living,  not  the 
dead. 

Imagination's  fool  and  error's  wretch, 

Man  makes  a  death,  which  nature 
never  made : 

Then  on  the  point  of  his  owti  fancy 
falls; 

And  feels  a  thousand  deaths,  in  fear- 
ing one. 


\_From  Night  Thoughts.'] 
NIGHT  v. 
DIFFERENT  SOURCES    OF  FUNE- 
RAL  TEARS. 

Our   funeral    tears   from    different 

causes  rise. 
As  if  from  cisterns  in  the  soul, 
Of  various  kinds  they  flow.      From 

tender  hearts 
By  soft  contagion  called,  some  burst 

at  once, 
And  stream  obsequious  to  the  lead- 
ing eye. 
Some  ask  more  time,  by  curious  art 

distilled. 
Some  hearts,  in  secret  hard,  unapt  to 

melt, 
Struck  by  the  magic  of  the  public  eye, 
Like  Moses'  smitten  rock,  gush  out 

amain. 
Some  weep  to  share  the  fame  of  the 

deceased. 
So  high  in  merit,  and  to  them  so 

dear: 


They  dwell  on  praises,  which  they 

think  they  share ; 
And  thus,  without  a  blush,  commend 

themselves. 
Some  mourn,  in  proof  that  some- 
thing they  could  love : 
They  weep  not  to  .relieve  their  grief, 

but  show. 
Some  weep  in  perfect  justice  to  the 

dead. 
As  conscious  all  their  love  is  in  arrear. 
Some  mischievously  weep,  not  unap- 
prised, 
Tears,  sometimes,  aid  the  conquest 

of  an  eye. 
With  what  address  the  soft  Ephesians 

draw 
Their  sable  network  o'er  entangled 

hearts ! 
As  seen  through  crystal,  how  their 

roses  glow. 
While    liquid    pearl    runs    trickling 

down  their  cheek ! 
Of  hers  not  prouder  Egypt's  wanton 

queen. 
Carousing  gems,  herself  dissolved  in 

love. 
Some  weep  at  death,  abstracted  from 

the  dead. 
And  celebrate,   like    Charles,   their 

own  decease. 
By    kind    construction     some     are 

deemed  to  weep 
Because  a  decent  veil  conceals  their 

joy. 

Some  weep  in  earnest,  and  yet  weep 
in  vain. 

As  deep  in  indiscretion  as  in  woe. 

Passion,  blind  passion!  impotently 
pours 

Tears,  that  deserve  more  tears;  while- 
Reason  sleeps. 

Or  gazes  like  an  idiot,  unconcerned ; 

Nor  comprehends  the  meaning  of  the 
storm ; 

Knows  not  it  speaks  to  her,  and  her 
alone. 

Half-round    the     globe,    the    tears 

pumped  up  by  death 
Are  spent  in  watering  vanities  of  life  \ 
In  making  folly  flourish  still  more 

fair. 


YOUNG. 


683 


{From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  V. 

VIRTUE,   THE  MEASURE  OF 
YEARS. 

What  though  short  thy  date ! 

Virtue,  not  rolling  suns,  the  mind 
matures. 

That  life  is  long,  which  answers  life's 
great  end. 

The  time  that  bears  no  fruit,  de- 
serves no  name : 

The  man  of  wisdom  is  the  man  of 
years. 

In  hoary  youth  Methusalems  may  die ; 

Oh,  how  misdated  on  their  flattering 
tombs ! 


[Fro7n  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  V. 

POWER  OF  THE   WORLD. 

NOE  reason,  nor  affection,  no,  nor 

both 
Combined,  can  break  the  witchcrafts 

of  the  world. 
Behold,  the  inexorable  hour  at  hand! 
Behold,  the  inexorable  hour  forgot! 
And  to  forget  it  the  chief  aim  of 

life; 
Though  well  to  ponder  it,  is  life's 

chief  end. 


[Fr(m  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  vr. 

ALL  CHANGE;   NO  DEATH. 

All  change ;  no  death.    Day  follows 

night;  and  night 
The  dying  day ;  stars  rise  and  set  and 

rise; 
Earth  takes  the  example.    See,  the 

summer  gay. 
With  her  green  chaplet  and  ambro- 
sial flowers, 
Droops  into  pallid  autumn:  winter 

gray, 
Horrid  with  frost  and  turbulent  with 

storm. 
Blows  autumn,  and  his  golden  fruits 

away : 


Then  melts   into    the    spring:    soft 
spring,  with  breath 

Favonian,  from  waim  chambei's  of 
the  south,  [lades, 

Recalls  the  first.     All,  to  reflourish. 

As  in  a  wheel,  all  sinks,  to  re-ascend. 

Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not 
expires. 
With  this  minute  distinction,  em- 
blems just. 

Nature  revolves,  but  man  advances; 
both 

Eternal ;  that  a  circle,  this  a  line. 

That  gravitates,  this  soars.     The  as- 
piring soul. 

Ardent  and  tremulous,  like  flame, 
ascends ; 

Zeal    and    hiunility,  her  wings    to 
heaven. 

The  world  of  matter,  with  its  various 
forms. 

All  dies  into  new  life.     Life  bom 
from  death 

Rolls  the  vast  mass,  and  shall  for 
ever  roll. 

No  single  atom,  once  in  being,  lost. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 


NIGHT  VII. 


AMBITION. 


Man  must  soar : 
An  obstinate  activity  within. 
An    insuppressive    spring  will    toss 

him  up 
In  spite  of  fortune's  load.     Not  kings 

alone. 
Each  villager  has  his  ambition  too; 
No  sultan  prouder  than  his  fettered 

slave :  [straw. 

Slaves  build  their  little  Babylons  of 
Echo  the  proud   Assyrian,  in  their 

hearts. 
And  cry —  "  Behold  the  wonders  of 

my  might!" 
And  why?     Because    immortal    as 

their  lord. 
And  souls  immortal  must  for  ever 

heave 
At  something  great;  the  glitter,  or 

the  gold ; 
The  praise  of  mortals,  or  the  praise 

of  Heaven. 


684 


YOUNG. 


Nor     absolutely     vain     is     human 

praise, 
When  human  is  supported  by  divine. 

As  love  of  pleasure  is  ordained  to 

guard 
And  feed  our  bodies,  and  extend  our 

race;  [tect, 

The  love  of  praise  is  planted  to  pro- 
And  propagate   the    glories  of    the 

mind. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.'] 

NIGHT  VIII. 

WIS  BOAT. 

No  man  e'er  found  a  happy  life  by 

chance ; 
Or  yawned  it  into  being  with  a  wish ; 
Or,  with  the  snout  of  grovelling  ap- 
petite, 
E'er  smelt  it  out,  and  grubbed  it 

from  the  dirt. 
An  art  it  is,  and  must  be  learned; 

and  learned 
With  unremitting  effort,  or  be  lost ; 
And  leave  us  perfect  blockheads,  in 

our  bliss. 
The  clouds  may  drop  down  titles  and 

estates ; 
Wealth  may  seek  us;   but  wisdom 

must  be  sought ; 
Sought  before  all;  but  (how  unlike 

all  else 
We  seek  on  earth!)  'tis  never  sought 

in  vain. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.'] 

NIGHT  IX. 

CHEERFULNESS  IN  MISFORTUNE. 
None  are  unhappy :  all  have  cause  to 

smile, 
But  such  as  to  themselves  that  cause 

deny.  [pains ; 

Our  faults  are  at  the  bottom  of  our 
Error,   in  act,  or  judgment,   is  the 

source 
Of    endless  sighs.      We  sin,  or  we 

mistake ; 
And  nature  tax,  when  false  opinion 

stings. 
Let  impious  grief  be  banished,  joy 

indulged ; 


But  chiefly  then,  when  grief  puts  in 
her  claim. 

Joy  from  the  joyous,  frequently  be- 
trays ; 

Oft  lives  in  vanity,  and  dies  in  woe. 

Joy  amidst  ills,  corroborates,  exalts; 

'Tis  joy  and  conquest;  joy  and  virtue 
too. 

A  noble  fortitude  in  ills,  delights 

Heaven,  earth,  ourselves;  'tis  duty, 
glory,  peace. 

Affliction  is  the  good  man's  shining 
scene : 

Prosperity  conceals  his  brightest  ray : 

As  night  to  stars,  woe  lustre  gives  to 
man. 

Heroes  in  battle,  pilots  in  the  storm, 

And  virtue  in  calamities,  admire. 

The  crown  of  manhood  is  a  winter 
joy; 

An  evergreen  that  stands  the  north- 
ern blast. 

And  blossoms  in  the  rigor  of  our  fate. 


[From  Night  Thoughts.] 

NIGHT  IX. 
THE    WORLD  A    GRAVE. 

Where  is  the  dust  that  has    not 

been  alive  ? 
The  spade,  the  plough,  disturb  our 

ancestors ; 
From  human   mould  we    reap    our 

daily  bread. 
The  globe  around  earth's  hollow  sur- 
face shakes. 
And  is  the  ceiling  of  her  sleeping  sons. 
O'er  devastation  we  blind  revels  keep ; 
While    buried    towns    support    the 

dancer's  heel. 
The  moist  of  human  frame  the  sun 

exhales ; 
Winds  scatter,  through  the  mighty 

void,  the  diy; 
Earth  repossesses  part  of  what  she 

gave. 
And    the    freed    spirit    mounts    on 

wings  of  fire ; 
Each  element  partakes  our  scattered 

spoils; 
As  nature,  wide,  our  ruins  spread: 

man's  death 
Inhabits  all  things,  but  the  thought 

of  man. 


SPOETIVE,  SATIRICAL,  HUMOEOUS, 


DIALECT  POEMS. 


Charles  Follen  Adams. 


YAWCOB  STRAUSS. 

I  HAF  von  funny  leedle  poy 

Vot  gomes  schust  to  mine  knee ; 
Der   queerest    schap,    der    Greatest 
rogue, 

As  efer  you  dit  see. 
He  runs,und  scliumps,und  schmaslies 
dings 

In  all  barts  off  der  house ; 
But  vot  off  dot  ?  he  vas  mine  son, 

Mine  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  get  der  measles  and  der  mumbs, 

Und  eferyding  dot's  oudt; 
He  sbills  mine  glass  off  lager  bier. 

Foots  schnuff  in  do  mine  kraut. 
He    fills    mine    pipe    mit    Limburg 
cheese,  — 

Dot  vas  der  roughest  chouse : 
I'd  dake  dot  vrom  no  oder  poy 

But  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  dakes  der  milk-ban  for  a  dhrum, 

Und  cuts  mine  cane  in  dwo, 
Tc  make  der  schticks  to  beat  it  mit, — 

Mine  cracious,  dot  vas  drue ! 
I  dinks  mine  hed  vas  schplit  abart. 

He  kicks  oup  sooch  a  touse: 
But  nefer  mind ;  der  poys  vas  few 

Like  dot  young  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  asks  me  questions  such  as  dese : 
Who  baints  mine  nose  so  red  ? 

Who  was  it  cuts  dot  schmoodth  blace 
oudt 
Vrom  der  hair  ubon  mine  hed  ? 


Und  vhere  der  plaze  goes  vi-om  der 
lamp 

Vene'er  der  glim  I  douse, 
How  gan  I  all  dose  dings  eggsblain 

To  dot  schmall  Yawcob  Strauss  ? 

I  somedimes  dink  I  schall  go  wild 

Mit  sooch  a  grazy  poy, 
Und  wish  vonce  more  I  gould  haf 
rest, 

Und  beacef ul  dimes  enshoy ; 
But  ven  he  vas  ashleep  in  ped, 

So  guiet  as  a  mouse, 
I  prays  der  Lord,  "Dake  anyding, 

But  leaf  dot  Yawcob  Strauss." 


PAT'S  CRITfCISM. 

There's  a  story  that's  old, 
But  good  if  twice  told, 

Of  a  doctor  of  limited  skill, 
Who  cured  beast  and  man 
On  the  "  cold-water  plan," 

Without  the  small  help  of  a  pill. 

On  his  portal  of  pine 
Himg  an  elegant  sign. 

Depicting  a  beautiful  rill, 

And  a  lake  where  a  sprite, 
With  apparent  delight. 

Was  sporting  a  sweet  dishabille. 

Pat  McCarty  one  day. 
As  he  sauntered  that  way. 
Stood  and  gazed  at  that  portal 
pine; 


of 


Note.— Thackeray's  Bouillabaisse  and  Trowbridge's  Fagabonds.  being  really 
pathetic  poems,  are  placed  here  for  convenience  rather  than  fitness,  tneh"  colloquial 
style  adapting  them  to  this  rather  than  the  other  department. 


686 


ALLINOEAM. 


When  the  doctor  with  pride 
Stepped  up  to  his  side, 
Saying,   "Pat,   how    is   that   for  a 
sign  ?  " 

"  There's  wan  thing,"  says  Pat, 

"Y'vehftout  o'  tliat, 
Which,  be  jabers !  is  quite  a  mistake: 

It's  trim,  and  it's  nate: 

But,' to  make  it  complate. 
Ye  should  have  a  foin  burd  on  the 
lake." 

"Ah!  indeed!  pray,  then  tell. 

To  make  it  look  well, 
Wliat  bird  do  you  think  it  may  lack? ' ' 

Says  Pat,  "  Of  the  same, 

I've  forgotten  the  name. 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is  '  Quack ! ' 
quack!'  " 


FRITZ  AND  I. 

Mynheer,  blease  helb  a  boor  oldt 
man 

Vot  gomes  vrom  Sharmany, 
Mit  Fritz,  mine  tog,  and  only  freund. 

To  geep  me  company. 

I  liaf  no  geld  to  puy  mine  pread, 
No  blace  to  lay  me  down ; 

For  ve  vas  vanderers,  Fritz  und  I, 
Und  sdrangers  in  der  town. 


Some  beoples  gife  us  dings  to  eadt, 
Und  some  dey  kicks  us  oudt, 

Und  say,    "  You  don'd  got  peesnis 
here 
To  sdroll  der  schtreets  aboudt!" 

Vot's  dot  you  say  ?  —  you  puy  mine 
tog 

To  gife  me  pread  to  eadt! 
I  vas  so  boor  as  nefer  vas. 

But  I  vas  no  "  tead  peat." 

Vot,  sell  mine  tog,  mine  leedle  tog, 

Dot  vollows  me  aboudt, 
Und  vags  his  dail  like  anydings 

Vene'er  I  dakes  him  oudt? 

Schust    look    at    him,  und  see  him 
schump ! 
He  likes  me  pooty  veil ; 
Und  dere   vas  somedings  'bout  dot 
tog, 
Mynheer,  I  wouldn't  sell. 

"Der  collar?"    Nein:  'tvas  some- 
ding  else 

Vrom  vich  I  gould  not  bart   ; 
Und,  if  dot  ding  was  dook  avay 

1  dink  it  prakes  mine  heart. 

"  Vot  was  it,  den,  aboudt  dot  tog," 
You  ashk,  "  dot's  not  vor  sale  ?" 

I  dells  you  what  it  ish,  mine  freund  ; 
'Tish  der  vag  off  dot  tog's  dail! 


William  Allingham. 

LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY. 

O  LOVELY  Mary  Donnelly,  it's  you  I  love  the  best! 
If  fifty  girls  were  round  you,  I'd  hardly  see  the  rest; 
Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be  where  it  will, 
Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before  me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that's  flowing  on  a  rock, 

How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are!  and  they  give  me  many  a  shocks 

Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine,  and  wetted  with  a  shower. 

Could  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip  that  has  me  in  its  power. 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eyebrows  lifted  up, 
Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth  like  a  china  cup ; 
Her  hair's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty  and  so  fine — 
It's  rolUng  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gathered  in  a  twine. 


BATES. 


687 


The  dance  o'  last  "Whit  Monday  night  exceeded  all  before — 
No  pretty  girl  for  miles  around  was  missing  from  the  floor; 
But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  O!  but  she  was  gay; 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  and  took  my  heart  away  I 

^Vhen  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were  so  complete, 
The  music  nearly  killed  itself,  to  listen  to  her  feet; 
The  fiddler  mourned  his  blindness,  he  heard  her  so  much  praised; 
But  blessed  himself  he  wasn't  deaf  when  once  her  voice  she  raised. 

And  evermore  I'm  whistling  or  lilting  what  you  sung; 
Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your  name  beside  my  tongue. 
But  you  ve  as  many  sweethearts  as  you'd  count  on  both  your  hands, 
And  for  myself  there's  not  a  thumb  or  little  finger  stands. 

O,  you're  the  flower  of  womankind,  in  country  or  in  town; 

The  higher  1  exalt  you  the  lower  I'm  cast  down. 

If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way  and  see  your  beauty  bright. 

And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I'd  own  it  was  but  right. 

O,  might  .we  live  together  in  lofty  palace  hall 
Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet  curtains  falll 
O,  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage  mean  and  small, 
With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud  the  only  wall  I 

O,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty's  my  distress  — 
It's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I'll  never  wish  it  less; 
The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and  I  am  poor  and  low, 
But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you  may  go  I 


Fletcher  Bates. 


THE    CLERGYMAN  AND    THE 
PEDDLER. 

A  CLERGYMAN  who  lougcd  to  tracc 
Amid  his  flock  a  work  of  grace. 
And  mourned  because  he  knew  not 

why. 
Yon  fleece  kept  wet  and  his  kept 

dry. 
While    thinking  what  he  could  do 

more 
Heard  some  one  rapping  at  the  door. 
And  opening  it,  there  met  his  view 
A  dear  old  brother  whom  he  knew. 
Who  had  got  down  by  worldly  blows, 
From    wealth    to   peddling  cast-off 

clothes. 
"  Come  in,  my  brother,"  said  the 

pastor, 
'*  Perhaps  my  trouble  you  can  mas- 
ter. 


For  since  the  summer  you  withdrew, 
My  converts  have  been  very  few." 
"  I  can,"  the  peddler  said,  "  unroll 
Something,  perchance,  to  ease  your 

soul, 
And  to  cut  short  all  fulsome  speeches, 
Bring  me  a  pair  of  your  old  breeches." 
The  clothes  were  brought,  the  ped- 
dler gazed, 
And  said,  "  No  longer  be  amazed. 
The  gloss  upon  this  cloth  is  such, 
I  think,  perhaps,  you  sit  too  much 
Building  air  castles,  bright  and  gay. 
Which  Satan  loves  to  blow  away. 
And  here  behold,  as  I  am  bom. 
The  nap  from  neither  knee  is  worn ; 
He  who  would  great  revivals  see. 
Must  wear  his  pants  out  on  the  knee; 
For  such  the  lever  prayer  supplies. 
When  pastors  kneel,  their  churches 


6S8 


BAYLY— BROWNING. 


Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 


WHY  DON'T  THE   MEN  PROPOSE? 

Why  don't  the  men  propose,  mam- 
ma? 
Why  don't  the  men  propose? 
Each  seems  just  coming  to  the  point, 

And  then  away  he  goes ! 
It  is  no  fault  of  youre,  mamma, 

That  everybody  knows; 
You/eie  the  finest  men  in  town, 
-Yet,  oh!  tliey  won't  propose! 

I'm  sure  I've  done  my  best,  mamma. 

To  make  a  proper  match ; 
For  coronets  and  eldest  sons 

I'm  ever  on  the  watch; 
I've   hopes    when    some    distingue 
beau 

A  glance  upon  me  throws ; 
But  though  he'll  dance,  and  smile, 
and  flirt, 

Alas!  he  won't  propose! 

I've  tried  to  win  by  languishing 

And  dressing  like  a  blue ; 
I've  bought  big  books,  and  talk'd  of 
them 
As  if  I'd  read  them  through! 
With  hair  cropped  like  a  man,  Fve 
felt 
The  heads  of  all  the  beaux; 


But  Spurzheim  could  not  touch  theii 
hearts, 
And,  oh!  they  won't  propose! 

I  threw  aside  the  books,  and  thought 

That  ignorance  was  bliss ; 
I  felt  convinced  that  men  preferr'd 

A  simple  sort  of  Miss ; 
And  so  I  lisped  out  naught  beyond 

Plain  "  Yeses  "  or  plain  "  noes," 
And  wore  a  sweet  unmeaning  smile; 

Yet,  oh!  they  won't  propose! 

Last  night,  at  Lady  Ramble's  rout, 

I  heard  Sir  Harry  Gale 
Exclaim,  "Now  1  propose  again!" 

I  started,  turning  pale; 
I  really  thought  my  time  was  come, 

I  blushed  like  any  rose ; 
But,  oh!  I  found  'twas  only  at 

Ecarte  he'd  propose  ! 

And  what  is  to  be  done,  mamma  ? 

Oh !  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
I  really  have  no  time  to  lose,  • 

For  I  am  thirty-one : 
At  balls  I  am  too  often  left 

Where  spinsters  sit  in  rows ; 
Why  won't  the  men  propose,  mam- 
ma ? 

Why  wonH  the  men  propose  ? 


Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


[From  Aurora  Leigh.'] 
GOODNESS. 

Distrust  that  word. 

"There  is  none  good  save  God,"  said 
Jesus  Christ, 

If  He  once,  in  the  first  creation-week. 

Called  creatures  good,  —  for  ever  af- 
terward, 

The  Devil  has  only  done  it,  and  his 
heirs,  [who  lose; 

The  knaves  who  win  so,  and  the  fools 


The  world's  grown  dangerous.  In 
the  middle  age, 

I  think  they  calle'd  malignant  fays 
and  imps 

Good  people.  A  good  neighbor,  even 
in  this, 

Is  fatal  sometimes,  — cuts  your  morn- 
ing up 

To  mince-meat  of  the  very  smallest 
talk. 

Then  helps  to  sugar  her  bohea  at 
night 


BROWNING, 


^m 


With  your  reputation.  I  have  known 

good  wives, 
As  chaste,  or  nearly  so,  as  Potiphar's; 
And  good,  good  mothers,  who  would 

use  a  child 
To  better  an  intrigue;  good  friends, 

beside, 
(Very   good)  wlio   hung   succinctly 

round  your  neck 
And  sucked  your  breath,  as  cats  are 

fabled  to  do 
By  sleeping  infants.   And  we  all  have 

Imown 
Good  critics,  who  have  stamped  out 

poets'  hopes; 
Good  statesmen,  who  pulled  ruin  on 

the  state; 
Good    patriots,    who,  for  a  tlieory, 

risked  a  cause ; 
Good  kings,  who  disembowelled  for 

a  tax; 
Good  popes,  who  brought  all  good  to 

jeopardy; 
Good  Christians,  who   sate  still  in 

easy  chairs. 
And  damned  the  general  world  for 

standing  up.  — 
Now,  may  the  good  God  pardon  all 

good  men! 


[From  Aurora  Leigh."] 
CRITICS. 

My  critic  Hammond  flatters  prettily, 
And  wants  another  volume  like  the 

last. 
My  critic  Belfair  wants  another  book, 
Entirely  different,   which  will  sell, 

(and  live  ?) 
A  striking  book,  yet  not  a  startling 

book. 
The  public  blames  originalities, 
(You  must  not  pump  spring  water 

unawares 
Upon    a   gracious    public,    full    of 

nerves — ) 
Good   tbings,  not  subtle,  new,  yet 

orthodox. 
As  easy  reading  as  the  dog-eared  page 
That's  fingered  by  said  public,  fifty 

years, 
Since   first   taught    spelling   by    its 

grandmother, 


And  yet  a  revelation  in  some  sort : 
That's  hard,  my  critic  Belfair!    So 

—  what  next  ? 
My  critic  Stokes  objects  to  abstract 

thoughts ; 
*'  Call  a  man,  John,  a  woman,  Joan," 

says  he, 
"  And  do  not  prate  so  of  humani- 
ties:" 
Whereat    I    call    my    critic    simply 

Stokes. 
My  critic  Johnson  recommends  more 

mirth 
Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the 

times. 
And  all  true  poets  laugh  unquencha- 

bly 
Like     Shakespeare    and   the   gods. 

That's  very  hard. 
The   gods    may  laugh,  and  Shake- 
speare ;  Dante  smiled 
With  such  a  needy  heart  on  two  pale 

lips, 
We  cry,  "  Weep  rather,  Dante."   Po- 
ems are 
Men,  if  true  poems:  and  who  dares 

exclaim 
At  any  man's  door,  "  Here,  'tis  im- 

derstood 
The  thunder  fell  last  week  and  killed 

a  wife, 
And  scared  a  sickly  husband  —  what 

of  that  ? 
Get  up,  be  merry,  shout  and  clap 

your  hands. 
Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the 

times—?" 
None  says  so  to  the  man,  —  and  why 

indeed 
Should  any  to  the  poem  ? 


[From  Aurora  Leigh.] 
HUMANITY. 

Hu>iANiTY  is  great; 
And,  if  I  would  not  rather  pore  upon 
An  ounce  of  common,  ugly,  human 

dust, 
An   artisan's   palm   or  a  peasant's 

brow, 
Unsmooth,  ignoble,  save  to  me  and 

God, 


690 


BROWNING. 


Than  track  old  Nilus  to  his  silver 

roots, 
And  wait  on  all  the  changes  of  the 

moon 
Among  the  mountain-peaks  of  Thes- 

saly, 
(Until  her  magic  crystal  round  itself 
For  many  a  witch  to  see  in)  set  it  down 
As  weakness  —  strength  by  no  means. 

How  is  this 
That  men  of  science,  osteologists 
And  surgeons,   beat  some  poets  in 

respect 
For  nature,  —  count  nought  common 

or  unclean,  [mens 

Spend  raptures  upon  perfect  speci- 
Of  indurated  veins,  distorted  joints, 
Or  beautiful    new  cases    of    curved 

spine ; 
While  we,  we  are  shocked  at  nature's 

falling  oif . 
We  dare  to  shrink  back  from  her 

warts  and  blains, 
We  will  not,  when  she  sneezes,  look 

at  her. 
Not  even  to  say,  "  Gk)d  bless  her," 

That's  our  wrong. 


For  that,  she  will  not  trust  us  often 
with 

Her  larger  sense  of  beauty  and  de- 
sire, 

But  tethers  us  to  a  lily  or  a  rose 

And  bids  us  diet  on  the  dew  inside, 

Left  ignorant  that  the  hungry  beg- 
gar-boy 

(Who  stares  unseen  against  oiu*  ab- 
sent eyes. 

And  wonders  at  the  gods  that  we 
must  be. 

To  pass  so  carelessly  for  the  oranges!) 

Bears  yet  a  breastful  of  a  fellow- 
world 

To  this  world,  undisparaged,  unde- 
spoiled. 

And  ( while  we  scorn  him  for  a  flower 
or  two. 

As  being.  Heaven  help  us,  less  poet- 
ical) 

Contains  himself  both  flowers  and 
firmaments 

And  surging  seas  and  aspectable  stars 

And  all  that  we  would  push  him  out 
of  sight 

In  order  to  see  nearer. 


Robert  Browning. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN. 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  city ; 
The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern 

side; 
A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied ; 

But  when  begins  my  ditty, 
Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 

From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 

Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the 
cats. 
And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles. 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats. 
And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's 
own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 


And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats, 
By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 

In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 
To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking: 

' ' '  Tis  clear, ' '  cried  they, ' '  our  mayor' s 
a  noddy ; 
And  as  for  our  corporation— shock- 
ing 

To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with 
ermine 

For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  deter- 
mine 

Wliat's  best  to  rid  us  of  om-  vermin! 

You  hope,  because  you're  old  and 
obese, 

To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease  ? 

Rouse  up,  sirs!    Give  your  brains  a 
racking. 


BROWNING, 


691 


To  find  the  remedy  we're  lacking, 
Or,  siire  as  fate,  we'll  send  you  pack- 
ing!" 
At  this,  the  mayor  and  corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sate  in  counsel  — 

At  lengtli  the  mayor  broke  silence: 
'''  For  a  guilder  I'd  my  ermine  gown 
sell; 
I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence ! 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain  — 
I'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
Oh,  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap! " 
Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber  door  but  a  gentle 

tap? 
"  Bless  us,"  cried  the  mayor,  "  what's 

that  ?  " 
(With  the  corporation  as  he  sat, 
Looking  little,  though  wondrous  fat; 
Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister, 
Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster. 
Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew 

mutinous 
For  a  plate  of  turtle,  green  and  glu- 
tinous) 
"Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the 

mat? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat! " 

"Come  in!"  the  mayor  cried,  look- 
ing bigger: 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure! 

His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 

Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red ; 

And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin; 

With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin ; 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy 
skin; 

No  tuft  on  cheek,  nor  beard  on  chin, 

But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and 
in  — 

There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and 
kin! 

And  nobody  could  enough  admire 

The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 

Quoth  one:  "  It's  as  my  great-grand- 
sire,  [tone, 

Starting  up  at  the  tnimp  of  doom's 

Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted 
tombstone  1'* 


He  advanced  to  the  council-table: 
And,  "  Please  your  honors,"  said  he, 

"  I'm  able, 
By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 
All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 
That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 
After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  I 
And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 
On  creatures  that  do  people  harm  — 
The  mole,  and  toad,  and  newt,  and 

viper  — 
And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 
(And  here  they  noticed  round  his 

neck 
A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 
To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  self- 
same check; 
And  at  the  scarf's  end  hung  a  pipe; 
And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were 

ever  straying 
As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 
Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 
Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 
"Yet,"  said  he,  "poor  piper  as  I 

am, 
In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 
Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of 

gnats ; 
I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 
Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire- 
bats; 
And,  as  for  what  your  brain  bewil- 
ders— 
If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats. 
Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guil- 
ders?" 
"One?   fifty  thousand ! "—was  the 

exclamation 
Of  the  astonished  mayor  and  corpo- 
ration. 

Into  the  street  the  piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile. 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  liis  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes 

twinkled. 
Like  a  candle  flame  where  salt  is 

sprinkled; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe 

uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered ; 


BROWNING. 


And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grum- 
bling; 

And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty 
rumbling ; 

And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came 
tumbling. 

Great    rats,    small    rats,    lean    rats, 
brawny  rats. 

Brown  rats,   black  rats,    grey  rats, 
tawny  rats, 

Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  frisk- 
ers, 
Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 

Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers ; 
Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 

Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives  — 

Followed  the  piper  for  their  lives. 

From  street  to  street  he  piped  advan- 
cing. 

And  step  by  step  they  followed  dan- 
cing. 

Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser 

Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished 

—  Save    one   who,   stout    as    Julius 
Caesar, 

Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 

(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 

To  rat-land  home  his  commentary. 

Which  was :  "  At  the  first  shrill  notes 
of  the  pipe, 

I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe. 

And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe. 

Into  a  cider-press's  gripe  — 

And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub- 
bo.ards. 

And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cup- 
boards, 

And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil- 
flasks, 

And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter- 
casks. 

And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 

(Sweeter  far   than    by  harp  or    by 
psaltery 

Is  breathed)   called  out,  O  rats,  re- 
joice ! 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  dry- 
saltery ! 

So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your 
nuncheon. 

Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon! 

And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon. 

All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun 
shone 


Glorious,  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
Just  as  methought  it   said,  Come, 

bore  me, 
—  I   found  the  Weser  rolling   o'er 

me." 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin 

people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the 

steeple ; 
"  Go,"  cried  the  mayor,   "  and  get 

long  poles ! 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the 

holes ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders. 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a 

trace 
Of  the  rats!" — when  suddenly,  up 

the  face 
Of  the  piper  perked  in  the  market- 
place. 
With  a,  "First,  if  you  please,  my 

thousand  guilders ! " 

A  thousand  guilders!  The  mayor 
looked  blue; 

So  did  the  corporation  too. 

For  the  council  dinners  made  rare 
havoc 

With  claret.  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave, 
Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhen- 
ish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fel- 
low 

With  a  gipsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow! 

"  Beside,"  quoth  the  mayor,  with  a 
knowing  wink, 

"  Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's 
brink ;  [sink. 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin 

And  what's  dead  can't  come  to  life, 
I  think. 

So,  friend,  we're  not  the  folks  to 
shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  some- 
thing for  drink. 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in 
your  poke ; 

But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we 
spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was 
in  joke, 


BROWNING. 


Besides,  our  losses    have   made  us 

thrifty ; 
A  thousand  guilders!     Come,  take 

fifty  I" 
The  piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 
*'  No  trifling!    I  can't  wait!  beside, 
I've   promised   to   visit   by   dinner 

time 
Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 
Of  the  head  cook's  pottage,  all  he's 

rich  in, 
For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitch- 
en. 
Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor  — 
With    him    I    proved    no    bargain- 
driver; 
With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a 

stiver! 
And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 
May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fash- 
ion." 

"  How  ?  "  cried  the  mayor,   "  d'ye 

think  I'll  brook 
Being  worse  treated  than  a  cook  ? 
Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 
With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 
You  threaten  us,  fellow?    Do  your 

worst, 
Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst ! " 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street ; 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight 

cane; 
And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such 

sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like 

a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching 

and  hustling; 
Small  feet   were   pattering,  wooden 

shoes  clattering. 
Little    hands    clapping,    and    little 

tongues  chattering; 
And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when 

barley  is  scattering. 
Out  came  the  children  running. 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls. 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like 


Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily 

after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting 

and  laughter. 
The  mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  coun- 
cil stood 
As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks 

of  wood, 
Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 
To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by — 
And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 
That   joyous    crowd  at  the  piper's 

back. 
But  how  the  mayor  was  on  the  rack. 
And  the  wretched  council's  bosoms 

beat, 
As  the  piper  turned  from  the  High 

Street 
To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 
Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and 

daughters! 
However,  he  turned  from  south  to 
west,  [dressed, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  ad- 
And  after  him  the  children  pressed ; 
Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 
"  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top! 
He's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 
And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop!" 
W^hen,  lo,  as  they  reached  the  moun- 
tain's side, 
A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 
As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hol- 
lowed ; 
And  the    piper  advanced   and  the 

children  followed ; 
And  when  all  were  in,  to  the  very 

last, 
The  door  in  the  mountain  side  shut 

fast. 
Did  I  say  all  ?    No !     One  was  lame, 
And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the 

way! 
And   in  after  years,  if  you  would 

blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, — 
"It's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  play- 
mates left! 
I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see. 
Which  the  piper  also  promised  me; 
For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous 

land. 
Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 


694 


BROWNING. 


Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees 

grew, 
And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 
And  every  thing  was  strange   and 

new; 
The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  pea- 
cocks here, 
And   their  dogs  outran  our  fallow 

deer. 
And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 
And  horses  were  born  with  eagles' 

wings ; 
And  just  as  I  became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 
The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still, 
And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 
Left  alone  against  my  will, 
To  go  now  limping  as  before, 
And    never    hear    of    that    country 
more!" 

Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin ! 
There  came  into  many  a  burgher's 

pate 
A  text  which  says  that  Heaven's 

gate 
Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in! 
The  mayor  sent  east,  west,  north,  and 

south, 
To  offer  the  piper  by  word  of  mouth, 
Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find 
him. 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content. 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 
And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  'twas  a  lost  en- 
deavor, 
And  piper  and  dancers  were  gone  for- 
ever. 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers 
never 
Should  think  their  records  dated 
duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and 
year 


These  words  did  not  as  well  appear: 
"And  so  long  after  what  happened 
here 
On  the  twenty-second  of  July, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  seventy-six;" 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  re- 
treat 
They  called  it  the  Pied  Piper's  Street; 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or 

tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his 

labor. 
Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tfivem 
To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so 
solemn ; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 
They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column. 
And   on  the  great  church  window 

painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world   ac- 
quainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away; 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  that  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such 

stress 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having 

risen 
Out  of  some  subterranean  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  time  ago,  in  a  mighty  band. 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick 

land. 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  under- 
stand. 
So,  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 
Of  scores  out  with  all  men — especially 

pipers : 
And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from 

rats  or  from  mice. 
If  we've  promised  them  aught,  let  us 
keep  our  promise. 


BUBNS, 


Robert  Burns. 


TAM  (y  SHANTER. 

A  TALE. 

Browiiyis  and  of  Bogilis,  full  is  this  Buke. 
— Gawin  Douglas. 

When    chapman    billies  leave    the 

street, 
And  drouthy  neebors,  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy,^ 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  thinkna  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame 
Gath'ring  her  brows  like  gath'ring 

storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 
This  truth  fand  honest   Tam  O' 

Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter 
(Auld  Ayr,  w^ham  ne'er  a  town  sur- 


For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses). 
O  Tam!  hadst  thou  but  been  sae 

wise, 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 
She    tauld    thee    weel  thou  wast  a 

skellum,^ 
A   blethering,    blustering,    drunken 

blellum ;  ^ 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober; 
That  ilka  melder,*  wi'  the  miller. 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on. 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou 

on. 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on 

Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton^  Jane  till 

Monday. 


She  prophesy' d  that,  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd 

in  Doon ; 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  ^  i'  the  mirk,^ 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 
Ah,    gentle   dames  I    it   gars    me 

greet,^ 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet. 
How  mony  lengthen' d,  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 
But  to  our  tale :  A  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'   reaming  swats,^  that  drank  di» 

vinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony; 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither: 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  the- 

gither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and 

clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better ; 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favors,  secret,  sweet,  and  pre- 
cious : 
The  souteri*^  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 
The    landlord's    laugh    was    ready 

chorus :  [rustle, 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and 

Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sa  happy, 

E'en   drowned   himself   amang  the 

nappy !  [ure, 

As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treas- 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi' 

pleasure ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was 

glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  iils  o'  life  victorious! 
But   pleasures    are    like    poppies 

spread,  [shed; 

You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is 


1  Ale.  2  Worthless  fellow.  8  Idle  talker. 

*  Every  time  that  com  was  sent  to  be  ground. 

6  Kirkton  is  the  distinctive  name  of  a  village  in  which  the  parish  kirk  stands. ' 

6  Wizards.  '  Dark.  8  Makes  me  weep. 

s  Frothing  ale.  ^o  Shoemaker. 


696 


BURNS. 


Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white  —  then  melts  for 

ever: 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place : 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ;  — 
The    hour   approaches    Tarn   maun 

ride: 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the 

key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast 

in; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road 

in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 
The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its 

last ; 
The   Tattling    show'rs    roSe  on  the 

blast ; 
The    speedy   gleams    the    darkness 

swallow'd; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder 

bellow' d; 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 
Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare, 

Meg, 
A  better,  never  lifted  leg, 
Tam    skelpiti    on    throu'    dub  and 

mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire ; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  gude   blue 

bonnet ; 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots 

sonnet; 
Whiles  glow' ring  round  wi'  prudent 

cares. 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk  Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly 

cry 
By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the   snaw    the    chapman 

smoor'd;2 
And  past   the  birks^  and  meikle  * 

stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck- 
bane; 


And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the 
cairn, 

Whare  hunters  fand  the   murder' d 
bairn; 

And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  her- 
sel. 

Before  him    Doon    pours    all    his 
floods ; 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the 
woods ; 

The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to 
pole; 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders 
roll: 

When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groan- 
ing trees, 

Kirk  Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze; 

Thro'    ilka    bore^  the  beams   were 
glancing; 

And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  danc- 
ing. 
Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn ! 

What  dangers  thou,  canst  make  us 
scorn ! 

Wi'  tippeny,  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi'  usquebae,  we'll  face  the  Devil! 

The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's 
noddle, 

Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  aston- 
ish'd, 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admon- 
ished, 

She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 

And  wow!  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance : 

Nae  cotillion  brent  new  f rae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and 
reels. 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

At  winnock-bunker  ^  in  the  east. 

There    sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o* 
beast ; 

A  towzie'^   tyke,  black,   grim,   and 
large, 

To  gie  them  music,  was  his  charge : 

He  screw' d  the  pipes  and  gart  ^  them 
skirl,9 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.  — 


1  Went  at  a  smart  pace. 

2  Smothered. 
8  Birches, 


4  Big. 

B  Hole  in  the  wall. 

6  Window-seat. 


8  Forced. 
•  Scream. 


BUHNS. 


697 


Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last 

dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  i  slight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, — 
By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  airns;-^ 
Twa    span-lang,    wee,    unchristen'd 

bairns ; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  f rae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red  rusted ; 
Five  scimitars,  wi'  murder  crusted ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  man- 
gled. 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft; 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu'. 
Which    ev'n    to  name  wad   be  un- 

lawfu', 
As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd  and 

curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and 

furious: 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew; 
The    dancers    quick     and    quicker 

flew; 
They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross'd, 

they  cleekit. 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit. 
And  coost  her  duddies^  to  the  wark, 
And  linkot*  at  it  in  her  sark! 
Xow  Tarn,  O  Tain!  had  thae  been 

queans 
A'    plump   and   strapping   in  their 

teens; 
Their   sarks.    instead    o'    creeshie  ^ 

flannen, 
Been  snaw-white    seventeen-hunder 

linnen!^ 
Thir"  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue 

hair, 
I  wad  a  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdies,^ 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  hurdles! 


But  wither'd  beldams,   auld    and 

droll, 
Rigvvoodie  hags,  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping   and  flinging    on    a    crum- 

mock,9 
I  wonder  didna  turn  the  stomach. 
But  Tarn  kend  what  was  what  fu' 

brawlie, 
"  There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and 

walie," 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 
(Lang  after  kend  on  Carrick  shore; 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and 

bear,i'> 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear), 
Her  cutty  ii  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn,^"^ 
That,  while  a  lassie,  she  had  worn, 
In  lonj^itude  though  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  siie  was  vauntic — 
Ah  !  little  kend  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That   sark    she    coft^^    for   ]ier    wee 

Nannie, 
Wi'   twa   pund    Scots    ('twas   a'   her 

riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  of  witches  ! 
But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun 

cour; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  Iier  pow'r; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang 
(A  souple  jade  she  was,  and  Strang), 
And   how   Tarn    stood,  like   ane   be- 

witch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  e'en  enrich'd ; 
Kven   Satan   glowr'd,  and   fidg'd  fu' 

fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and 

main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  '*  anither, 
Tarn  tint  i*^  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel   done,  Cutty- 

sark ! " 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark ; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied. 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 


1  Magic.                                     3  Clothes.  s  Greasy. 

2  Irons.  *  Tripped  along. 

6  The  manufacturing  term  for  a  fine  lineu,  woven  in  a  reel  of  1700  diviBions.— 
Cromek. 

f  These  "  Barley.  "  Bought. 

8  Loins.  "  Short.  "  Then. 

>  Short  staff.  "  Very  coarse  linen.  "  Lost. 


698 


BUBNS. 


As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke,^ 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their 

byke;^ 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their 

nose ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When,  "Catch  the  thief  !"  resounds 

aloud ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  niony  an  eldritch  skreech  and 

hollow. 
Ah,  Tam!   ah,  Tarn!    thou' 11  get 

thy  fairin! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  her- 

rin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  ^  of  the  brig ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle;^ 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  — 
Ae  spring  brought  off    her  master 

hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail; 
The  carl  in  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 
Now,  who  this  tale  of  truth  shall 

read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  tak  heed; 


Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind. 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear, 
Remember  Tam  O'  Shanter'smare. 


FBOM  THE  "  LINES  TO  A  LOUSE." 

Now  baud  ye  there,  ye' re  out  o'  sight. 
Below  the  fatt'rils,^  snug  and  tight; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet!  ye' 11  no  be  right 

Till  ye've  got  on  it, 
The  vera  topmost,  tow' ring  height 

O'  Miss's  bonnet. 

I  Tvad  na  been  surpris'd  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flainen  toy  ;^ 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On  's  wyhecoat:^ 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi!*^  fie. 

How  daur  ye  do't? 

O  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread ! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's^  niakin! 
Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I  dread, 

Are  notice  takin ! 

O  wad  some  Pow'r  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us ! 
It  wad  frae  mony  a  blunder  free  us 

And  foolish  notion ; 
Wliat  airs  in  dress  and  gait  wad  lea'e 
us, 

And  ev'n  devotion! 


1  Bustle,  2  Hive. 

*>  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  witches,  or  any  evil  spirits  have  no  power  to  follow 
a  poor  wight  any  farther  than  the  middle  of  the  next  running  stream.  It  may  be  proper 
likewise  to  mention  to  the  benighted  traveller,  that  when  he  falls  in  with  bogles, 
whatever  danger  may  be  in  his  going  forward,  there  is  much  more  hazard  in  turning 
back.-K.  B. 

*  Etfort.  5  Ribbon-ends. 

fi  An  old-fashioned  head-dress.  '  Flannel  vest. 

8  A  bonnet,  named  after  Lunardi,  whose  balloon  made  him  notorious  in  Scotland 
about  1785. 

"  The  shrivelled  dwarf. 


BUTLER. 


699 


Samuel  Butler. 


[From  Hndibras.] 
THE   LEARMNG   OF  HUDIBRAS. 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 
Profoundly  skitl'd  in  analytic; 
He  could  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west 

side; 
On  either  which  he  would  dispute, 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  con- 
fute. 
He'd  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 
Of  argument,  a  man's  no  horse. 
He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 
And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl, 
A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  jus- 
tice, 
And  rooks  committee-men  and  trus- 
tees. 
He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation, 
And  pay  with  ratiocination. 
All  this  by  syllogism,  true 
In  mood  and  figure  he  would  do. 
For  Rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,    but  out    there    flew  a 

trope : 
And  when  he  happened  to  break  off 
In  the  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough. 
He  had  hard  words  ready  to  shew 

why, 
And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by: 
Else,  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke. 
You'  d  think  he  talk'd    like    other 

folk: 
For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 
Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 
But,  when  he  pleas' d  to  shew't,  his 

speech, 
In  loftiness  of  sound,  was  rich; 
A  Babylonish  dialect, 
Which  learned  pedants  much  affect. 
It  was  a  party-coloFd  dress 
Of  patch'd  and    piebald    languages: 
'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  La- 
tin, 
Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin. 
It  had  an  odd  promiscuous  tone, 
As    if    he'd    talked   three  parts   in 
one; 


Which  made  some  think,  when  he 

did  gabble. 
They'd  heard  three  laborers  of  Babel- 
Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 
A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 
This  he  as  volubly  would  vent 
As  if  his  stock  would  ne'er  be  spent; 
And  truly  to  support  that  charge. 
He  had  supplies  as  vast  and  large ; 
For  he  could  coin  or  counterfeir 
New  words  with  little  or  no  wit : 
Words,  so  debas'd  and  hard,  no  stone 
Was  hard  enough  to  touch  them  on: 
And  when  with  hasty  noise  he  spoke 

'em. 
The  ignorant  for  current  took  'em; 
That  had  the  orator,  who  once 
Did  fill  his  mouth  with  pebble-stones 
When  he  harangued,  but  known  his 

phrase, 
He  would  have  used  no  other  ways. 
In  Mathematics  he  was  greater 
Than  Tycho  Brahe  or  Erra  Pater: 
For  he,  by  geometric  scale. 
Could  take  the  size  of  pots  of  ale; 
Resolve,     by    signs    and   tangents, 

straight, 
If  bread  or  butter  wanted  weight ; 
And  wisely  tell  what  hour  o'  th'  day 
The  clock  does  strike,  by  algebra. 
Beside  he  was  a  shrewd  philosopher, 
And  had  read  ev'ry  text  and  gloss 

over. 
Whate'er  the  crabbed' st  author  hath, 
He  understood  by  implicit  faith : 
Whatever  sceptic  could  inquire  for. 
For  ev'ry  why  he  had  a  wherefore; 
Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do. 
As  far  as  words  and  terms  could  go: 
All  which  he  understood  by  rote. 
And,  as  occasion  serv'd,  would  quote 
No  matter  whether  right  or  wrong, 
They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 
His  notions  fitted  things  so  well, 
That  which  was  which  he  could  not 

tell 
But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 
For  th'  other,  as  great  clerks  have 

done. 


700 


BUTLER. 


He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts, 
And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts ; 
Where  entity  and  quiddity, 
The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies  fly, 
Where  truth  in  person  does  appear. 
Like  words    congeal' d  in  northern 

:\ir. 
He  knew  what's  what,  and  that's  as 

high 
As  met«jphysic  wit  can  fly. 


\_From  Hiidibras.] 

THE  BIBLICAL  KyOWLEDGE  AND 
RELIGION  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

He  knew  the  seat  of  Paradise, 
Could  tell  in  what  degree  it  lies ; 
And,  as  he  was  disposed,  could  prove 

it 
Below  the  moon,  or  else  above  it: 
What   Adam    dreamt  of,  when  his 

bride 
Came  from  her  closet  in  his  side; 
Whether  the  devil  tempted  her 
By  a  High-Dutch  interpreter: 
If  either  of  them  had  a  navel : 
Who  first  made  music  malleable ; 
Whether  the  serpent,  at  the  fall, 
Had  cloven  feet  or  none  at  all. 
All  this  without  a  gloss  or  comment. 
He  could  unriddle  in  a  moment. 
In  proper  terms,  such  as  men  smat- 

ter, 
When  they  throw  out  and  miss  the 

matter. 
For  his  religion,  it  was  fit 
To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit: 
'Twas  Presbyterian  true  blue; 
For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  church  militant; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  oi  pike  and  gun; 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery; 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks. 

A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 
In  odd  perverse  antipathies; 
In  falling  out  with  that  or  this, 
And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss: 


More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic, 
Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sick; 
That  with  more  care  keep  holy-day 
The  wrong,   than  others  the  right 

way: 
Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined 

to, 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind 

to: 
Still  so  perverse  and  opposite. 
As  if  they  worshipped  God  for  spite. 
The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 
One  way,  and  long  another  for. 
Free-will  they  one  way  disavow; 
Another,  nothing  else  allow. 
All  piety  consists  therein 
In  them,  in  other  men  all  sin. 
Kather  than  fail  they  will  decry 
That  which  they  love  most  tenderly; 
Quarrel  with  minced  pie,  and  dispar- 
age 
Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum- 
porridge. 


IFrom  Hudibras.] 
THE  KNIGHT'S  STEED. 

The  beast  was    sturdy,  large,  and 

tall. 
With  mouth  of  meal,  and  eyes  of 

wall. 
I  would  say  eye ;  for  he  had  but  one, 
As  most  agree :  tho'  some  say  none. 
He  was  well  stayed :  and  in  his  gait 
Preserved  a  grave  majestic  state. 
At  spur  or  switch  no  more  he  skipt, 
Or    mended    pace    than    Spaniard 

whipt ; 
And  yet  so  fiery  he  would  bound 
As  if  he  grieved  to  touch  the  ground : 
That  Caesar's    horse,  who  as  fame 

goes 
Had  corns  upon  his  feet  and  toes, 
Was  not  by  half  so  tender  hooft. 
Nor  trod  upon  the  ground  so  soft. 
And  as  that  beast  would  kneel  and 

stoop 
(Some  write)  to  take  his  rider  up. 
So  Hudibras  his  ('tis  well  known) 
Would  often  do  to  set  him  down. 
We  shall  not  need  to  say  what  lack 
Of  leather  was  upon  his  back; 


BUTLER. 


roi 


For  that  was  hidden  under  pad, 
4-nd  breech  of  knight  galled  full  as 

bad. 
His    strutting    ribs    on    both    sides 

showed 
Like     furrows     he      himself     had 

ploughed ; 
For  underneath  the  skirt  of  pannel, 
'Twixt  every  two  there  was  a  chan- 
nel. 
His    draggling    tail    hung    in    the 

dirt, 
Which  on  his  rider  he  would  flirt, 
Still  as  his  tender  side  he  pricked. 
With  armed  heel,  or  with  unarmed, 
kicked ; 


For  Hudibras  wore  but  one  spur: 
As  wisely  knowing,  could  he  stir 
To  active  trot  one  side  of  's  horse. 
The  other  would  not  hang  an  arse. 


\_Frotn  Hudibras.] 
THE   PLEASURE   OF  BEING  CHEATED, 

Doubtless  the  pleasure  is  as  great 
Of  being  clieated,  as  to  cheat: 
As  lookers-on  feel  most  delight, 
Tliat  least  pel-ceive  a  juggler's  sleight: 
And  still  the  less  they  understand, 
The  more  they  admire  liis  sleight  of 
hand. 


William  Allen  Butler. 


FROM  "  NOTHING   TO    WEAR.'* 


Nothing  to  ^^ear!    Now,  as^ihis 
is  a  true  ditty, 
I  do  not  assert — this,  you  know, 
is  between  us  — 
That  she's  in  a  state  of  absolute  nu- 
dity, 
Like  Powers'  Greek  ^lave  or  the 
Medici  Venus;  ^ 
But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard 
her  declare, 
\\    When  at  the  same  moment  she  had 

on  a  dress 
'^Which  cost  five  hrmdred  dollars, 

and  not  a  cent  less, 
HL  And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more, 
*^        I  should  guess, 
^That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide 
world  to  wear! 

lould  mention  just  here,  that  out 
of  Miss  Flora's 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty 
adorers, 

I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who 
should  tlirow  all 

The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gra- 
cious bestowal 

On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  re- 
jections. 

Of  those  fossil  remains  which  she 
called  her  "  affections," 


And  that  rather  decayed,  but  well- 
known  work  of  art. 

Which  Miss  Flora  persisted  in  sty! 
ing  her  "heart." 

So  we  were  engaged.  Our  troth  had 
been  plighted. 

Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeam,  by 
fountain  or  grove. 

But  in  a  front  parlor,  most  brilliantly 
lighted. 

Beneath  the  gas-fixtures,  we  whis- 
pered our  love. 

Without  any  romance,  or  raptures, 
or  sighs. 

Without  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora's 
blue  eyes, 

Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such 
silly  actions. 

It  was  one  of  the  quietest  business 
transactions, 

With  a  very  small  sprinkling  of  sen- 
timent, if  any, 

And  a  very  large  diamond  imported 
by  Tiffany. 

On  her  virginal  lips  while  I  printed  a 
kiss. 

She  exclaimed,  as  a  sort  of  paren- 
thesis. 

And  by  way  of  putting  me  quite  at 
my  ease, 

"  You  know  I'm  to  polka  as  much  as 
I  please, 


702 


BUTLER. 


And 


stop, 


And 


flirt  when  I  like  —  now, 
don't  you  speak  — 
you  must  not  come  here  more 
than  twice  in  the  week, 

Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball. 

But  always  be  ready  to  come  when  I 
call ; 

So  don't  prose  to  me  about  duty  and 
stuff. 

If  we  don' t  break  this  off,  there  will 
be  time  enough 

For  that  sort  of  thing;  but  the  bar- 
gain must  be 

That,  as  long  as  I  choose,  I  am  per- 
fectly free,  — 

For  this  is  a  kind  of   engagement, 
you  see, 

Which  is  binding  on  you,   but  not^ 
binding  on  me." 

\J    /Well,   having  thus  wooed  Miss  M'- 
\  Flimsey  and  gained  her, 

\     With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops 
>j  '■  that  contained  her, 

^^     I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  re- 
mainder 
At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best 

right 
To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by 

night; 
And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuck- 
ups'  grand  ball,  — 
Their  cards  had  been  out  a  fort- 
night or  so. 
And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tip- 
.  (^       toe,  — 

^  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call, 
And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 
I  found  her  —  as  ladies  are  apt  to  be 

found. 
When  the  time  intervening  between 

the  first  sound 
Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is 

shorter 
Than  usual  —  I  found;  I  won't  say 

I  caught  her. 
Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly 

meaning 
To  see  if   perhaps  it  did  n't  need 

cleaning. 
She    turned    as  I   entered  —  "Why 

Harry,  you  sinner, 
1  thought  that  you  went  to  the  Flash- 
ers' to  dinner!" 


"  So  I  did,"  I  repHed,  "  but  the  din. 

ner  is  swallowed. 
And  digested,  I  trust,  for  't  is  now 

nine  and  more, 
So,  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I 

followed 
Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see, 
{/         to  your  door; 
'And  now  will  your  ladyship  so  con- 
descend 
As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 
Your  beauty,  and  graces,  and  pres- 
ence to  lend 
(All  of  which,  when  I  own<  I  hope 

no  one  will  borrow) 
To  the  Stuckups',  whose  party,  yoy 

^i     know,  is  to-morrow?  " 
Tne^fair  Flora  looked  up,    with  a 

pitiful  air. 
And     answered     quite     promptly,  ^ 
vV     "Why,  Harry,  mon  cher,  ^ 

I  snould  like  above  all  things  to  go 

with  you  there. 
But  really  and  truly  —  I've  nothing^ 

to  wear."  ^ 

"Nothing  to  wear!  go  just  as  you 

are; 
Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and 

you  '11  be  by  far, 
I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  par- 
ticular star 
On   the    Stuckup   horizon  — "    I 

stopped,  for  her  eye, 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset 

of  flattery, 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible 

battery 
Of   scorn  and    amazement.     She 

made  no  reply. 
But  gave  a  slight  tmn  to  the  end  of 

her  nose, 
(That  pure   Grecian  feature,)   as 

much  as  to  say, 
"How  absurd  that  any  sane   man 

should  suppose 
That  a  lady  would  go  to  a  ball  in  the 

clothes. 
No  matter  how  fine,  that  she  we 

every  day!" 


So  I 


ventured  again; 

crimson  brocade 

(Second  turn  up  of  nose)  — 

C       too  dark  by  a  shade.' 


Wear  ^  your 
That 's 


1^ 


BUTLER. 


708 


"Your    blue  silk "  —  " That 's   too 

heavy.  "      "Your    pink,"  — 

*' That's  too  lightv'^ 
Wear  tulle  over  satin '^  —  ",I  can't 

endure  white."  ^•\ 

our  rose-colored,  then,   the  best 

of  the  batch"—  \ 

*  I  have  n't  a  thread  of  point-lace  to 

match."  >^ 
"Your    brown    moire    antique^'  — 

"Yes,  and  look  like  a  Quaker;" 
"  The  pearl-colored  " — "  1  would,  but 

that  plaguy  dress-maker 
Has  had  it  a  week."     "Then  that 

exquisite  lilac, 
In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart 

of  aishylock;" 
vHere  the  nose  took  again  the  same 

elevation)  — 
"  1  would  n't  wear  that  for  the  whole 

of  creation." 
"  Why  not?  It's  my  fancy,  there 's 

nothing  could  strike  it 
As  more  comnie  il  faiif'' — "Yes, 

but  dear  me,  that  lean 
Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just 

like  it, 
And  1  won't  appear  dressed  like  a 

chit  of  sixteen." 
"Then  that    splendid    purple,  that 

sweet  Mazarine ; 
That  superb  'point  d' aiguille,  that 

imperial  green, 
That  zephyr-like  tarletan,  that  rich 

(/renadine  "  — 
"Not  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be 

seen,"  [flushed. 

Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and 
"  Then  wear,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 

which  quite  crushed 
Opposition,    "  that   gorgeous   toi- 
lette which  you  sported 
In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  pre- 
sentation. 
When  you  quite  turned  the  head  of 

the  head  of  the  nation, 
And  by  all  the  grand  court  were 

so  very  much  courted." 
The  end  of  the  nose  was  portent- 
ously tipped  up. 
And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth 

indignation, 
As  she  burst  upon  me  with  the  fierce 

exclamation, 


/, 


"  I  have  worn  it  three  times,  at  the 
least  calculation, 
And  that  and  most  of  my  dresses 
are  ripped  up!" 


\J^ 


I  have  told  you  and  shown  you  I  've 

nothing  to  wear. 
And  it 's  perfectly  plain  you  not  only 

don't  care,  -  '  ^\ 

But  you  do  not  believe  me,"  (heretlie 

nose  went  still  higher), 
"  I  suppose,  if  you  dared,  you  would 

call  me  a  liar.^.-'^ 
Our  engagement  is  ended,  sir,  —  yes, 

on  the  spot ; 
You're  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and 

—  I  don't  know  what." 
I  mildly  suggested  the  words  Hot- 
tentot, 
Pickpocket,    and    cannibal,  Tartar, 

and  thief. 
As    gentle    expletives  which  might 

give  relief; 
But  this  only  proved  as  a  spark  to 

the  powder. 
And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came 

faster  and  louder ; 
It  blew  and  it    rained,  thundered, 

lightened,  and  hailed 
Interjections,  verbs,    pronouns,  till 

language  quite  failed 
To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its 

arrears 
Were  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  tor- 
rent of  tears. 


Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for 
my  hat,  too. 

Improvised  on  the  crown  of  the  lat- 
ter a  tattoo, 

In  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings 
which  lay 

Quite  too  deep  for  words,  as  Words- 
worth would  say; 

Then,  without  going  through  the 
form  of  a  bow, 

Found  myself  in  the  entry  —  I  hardly 
knew  how. 

On  doorstep  and  feidewalk,  past  lamp- 
post and  square. 

At  home  and  up  stairs,  in  my  own 
easy-chair; 


704                                            BYI 

WM. 

Poked  my  feet  into   slippers,  my 
,>  ^             fire  into  blaze, 
IrAnd  said    to  myself,   as    I    lit    my 
cigar, 
"  Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of 
a  Czaj- 

Of  the  Russias   to  boot,  for  the 
rest  of  his  days, 
On  the  whole,  do  you  think  he  would 

have  much  to  spare, 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing 
yv^     to  wear?" 

^ 


John  Byrom. 


THE   WAY  A  RUMOR   IS   SPREAD, 
OR,  THE  THREE  BLACK  CROWS. 

Two  honest  tradesmen  meeting  in 

the  Strand, 
One  took  the  other,  briskly,  by  the 

hand ; 
Hark-ye,  said  he,  'tis  an  odd  story 

this 
About  the  crows!  —  I  don't  know 

what  it  is, 
Rephed  his  friend. — No!   I'm  sur- 
prised at  that ; 
Where  I  came  from  it  is  the  common 

chat; 
But  you  shall  hear;    an  odd  affair 

indeed ! 
And,  that  it  happened,  they  are  all 

agreed : 
Not  to  detain  you  from  a  thing  so 

strange, 
A  gentleman,  that  lives  not  far  from 

Change, 
This  week,  in  short,  as  all  the  alley 

knows. 
Taking  a  puke,  has  thrown  up  three 

black  crows,  — 
Impossible!  —  Nay,    but    it's    really 

true ; 
I  have  it  from  good  hands,  and  so 

may  you.  — 
From  whose,  I  pray? — So  having 

named  the  man. 
Straight  to  inquire  his  curious  com- 
rade ran. 
Sir,  did  you  tell  —  relating  the  af- 
fair— 
Yes,  sir,  I  did:  and  if  its  worth  your 

care. 
Ask  Mr.  Such-a-one,  he  told  it  me 
But,    by    the    by,  'twas  two  black 

crows,  not  three.  — 


Resolved  to  trace  so  wondrous  an 

event. 
Whip,   to  the  third,     the    virtuoso 

went ; 
Sir  —  and  so  forth  —  Why,  yes;  the 

thing  is  fact. 
Though  in  regard    to    number,  not 

exact; 
It  was  not  two  black  crows,  'twas 

only  one. 
The  truth  of  that  you  may  depend 

upon. 
The  gentleman  himself  told  me  the 

case  — 
Where  may  I  find  him?  —  Why,  in 

such  a  place. 
Away  goes  he,  and  having  found 

him  out. 
Sir,  be  so  good  as  to  resolve  a  doubt. 
Then    to  his  last  informant  he  re- 
ferred, 
And  begged  to  know,  if   true  what 

he  had  heard? 
Did  you,  sir,  throw  up  a  black  crow? 

— NotI  — 
Bless  me !  how  people  propagate  a  lie ! 
Black  crows  have  been  thrown  up, 

three,  two,  and  one; 
And  here,  I  find,  all  comes,  at  last,  to 

none! 
Did  you  say  nothing  of  a  crow  at 

all?  — 
Crow  —  crow  —  perhaps  I  might,  now 

I  recall 
The  matter  over — And,  pray,  sir, 

what  was't  ? 
Why,  I  was  horrid  sick,  and,  at  the 

last, 
I  did  throw  up,  and  told  my  neighbor 

so. 
Something  that  was  -  as  black,  sir, 

as  a  crow. 


BYROM. 


701 


CARELESS  CONTENT. 

I  AM  content,  I  do  not  care, 
Wag  as  it  will  the  world  for  me ; 

When  fuss  and  fret  was  all  my  fare, 
It  got  no  ground  as  1  could  see : 

So  when  away  my  caring  went, 

I  counted  cost,  and  was  content. 

With   more  of    thanks  and  less  of 
thought, 
I  strive  to  make  my  matters  meet; 
To  seek  what  ancient  sages  sought, 

Pliysi(fand  food  in  soiu-  and  sweet: 
To  take  what  passes  in  good  part, 
And    keep   the  hiccups    from    the 
heart. 

With  good  and  gentle-humored  hearts, 
I  choose  to  chat  where'er  I  come, 

Whate'er  the  subject  be  that  starts; 
But  if  I  get  among  the  glum, 

I  hold  my  tongue  to  tell  the  truth, 

And  keep  my   breath    to  cool  my 
broth. 

For  chance  or  change  of  peace  or 
pain. 
For  Fortune's  favor  or  her  frown, 
For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain, 

I  never  dodge,  nor  up  nor  do\vn : 
But  swing  what  way  the  ship  shall 

swim. 
Or  tack  about  with  equal  trim. 

If  names  or  notions  make  a  noise. 
Whatever  hap  the  question  hath, 
The  point  impartially  I  poise, 
And  read  or  write,    but    without 
wrath ; 
For   should    I   burn,  or  break   my 

brains. 
Pray,   who  will   pay  me    for    my 
pains  ? 

I  suit  not  where  I  shall  not  speed, 
Nor  trace  the  turn  of  every  tide ; 

If  simple  sense  will  not  succeed, 
I  make  no  bustling,  but  abide : 

For  shining  wealth,  or  scaring  woe, 

I  force  no  fciend,  I  fear  no  foe. 


Of  ups  and  downs,  of  ins  and  outs. 
Of  they're  i'  the  wrong,  and  we're 
i'  the  right, 

I  shun  the  rancors  and  the  routs ; 
And  wishing  well  to  every  wight, 

Whatever  turn  the  matter  takes, 

I  deem  it  all  but  ducks  and  drakes. 

With  whom  I  feast  I  do  not  fawn, 
Nor  if  the  folks  should  flout  me, 
faint : 

If  wonted  welcome  be  withdrawn, 
I  cook  no  kind  of  a  complaint: 

With  none  disposed  to  disagree. 

But  like  them    best  who  best  like 


Not  that  I  rate  myself  the  rule 
How   all    my   betters   should  be- 
have; 
But  fame  shall  find  me  no  man's 
fool. 
Nor  to  a  set  of  men  a  slave : 
I  love  a  friendship  free  and  frank. 
And  hate  to  hang  upon  a  hank. 

Fond  of  a  true  and  trusty  tie, 
I  never  loose  where'er  I  link; 

Though  if  a  business  budges  by, 
I  talk  thereon  just  as  I  think; 

My  word,  my  work,  my  heart,  my 
hand, 

Still  on  a  side  together  stand. 

I  love  my  neighbor  as  myself, 
Myself  like  him  too,  by  his  leave; 

Nor  to  his  pleasure,  power,  or  pelf, 
Came  I  to  crouch,  as  I  conceive: 

Dame  Nature  doubtless  has  designed 

A  man  the  monarch  of  his  mind.  . 

Now  taste  and  try  this  temper,  sirs. 
Mood    it   and   brood   it    in   youi 
breast; 
Or  if  ye  ween,  for  worldly  stirs, 
That  man  does  right  to  mar  his 
rest. 
Let  me  be  deft  and  debonair, 
X  am  content,  I  do  not  care. 


706 


BYRON, 


SPECTACLES,   OR  HELPS   70  READ, 

A  CERTAIN  artist  —  I've  forgot  his  name  — 

Had  got,  for  making  spectacles,  a  fame, 

Or  "  helps  to  read,"  as,  when  they  first  were  sold, 

Was  writ  upon  his  glaring  sign  in  gold ; 

And,  for  all  uses  to  be  had  from  glass, 

His  were  allowed  by  readers  to  surpass. 

There  came  a  man  into  his  shop  one  day — 
"  Are  you  the  spectacle  contriver,  pray  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir,"  said  he;  "  I  can  in  that  affair  ^ 

•Contrive  to  please  you,  if  you  want  a  pair." 
"  Can  you  ?  pray  do  then."     So,  at  first,  he  chose 
To  place  a  youngish  pair  upon  his  nose ; 
And  book  produced  to  see  how  they  would  fit: 
Asked  how  he  liked  'em  ?    "  Like  'em  ?  not  a  bit." 

"  Then,  sir,  I  fancy,  if  .you  please  to  try. 

These  in  my  hand  will  better  suit  your  eye." 

"  No,  but  they  don't."     "  Well,  come,  sir,  if  you  pleasej 

Here  is  another  sort,  we'll  e'en  try  these; 

Still  somewhat  more  they  magnify  the  letter; 

Now,  sir  ?"     *'  Why,  now — I'm  not  a  bit  the  better." 

"No  ?  here,  take  these,  that  magnify  still  more; 

How  do  they  fit?''     "  Like  all  the  rest  before." 

In  short  they  tried  a  whole  assortment  through. 
But  all  in  vain,  for  none  of  'ern  would  do. 
The  operator,  much  surprised  to  find 
So  odd  a  case,  thought,  sure  the  man  is  blind! 
"  What  sort  of  eyes  can  you  have  got  ?  "  said  he. 
"  Why,  very  good  ones,  friend,  as  you  may  see." 
"  Yes,  I  perceive  the  clearness  of  the  ball  — 
Pray,  let  me  ask  you,  can  you  read  at  all  ?" 
"  No,  you  great  blockhead ;  if  I  could,  what  need 
Of  paying  you  for  any  '  helps  to  read  ? '  " 
And  so  he  left  the  maker  in  a  heat, 
Eesolved  to  post  him  for  an  arrant  cheat. 


Lord  Byron. 


[From  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re- 
viewers,'] 

CRITICS. 

Oh!   nature's   noblest  gift  —  my 
gray  goose-quill ! 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my 
will, 


Torn  from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a 
pen. 

That  mighty  instrument  of  little 
men! 

The  pen !  foredoomed  to  aid  the  men- 
tal throes 

Of  brains  tliat  labor,  big  with  verse 
or  prose, 


CAMPBELL. 


707 


Though  nymphs  forsake,  and  critics 

may  deride, 
The  lover's  solace  and  the  author's 

pride. 
What  wits,  what   poets,    dost  thou 

daily  raise! 
How  frequent  is  thy  use,  how  small 

thy  praise! 
Condemned  at  length  to  be  forgotten 

quite. 
With  all  the  pages  which  'twas  thine 

to  write. 

Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other 

fame; 
The  cry  is  up,  and  scribblers  are  my 

game. 
Speed,  Pegasus !  —  ye  strains  of  great 

and  small, 
Ode,  epic,  elegy,  have  at  you  all ! 
I,  too,  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a 

a  time 
I  poured  along  the  town  a  flood  of 

rhyme, 
•    A  schoolboy  freak,  unworthy  praise 

or  blame ; 
I    printed  —  older  children    do  the 

same. 
*Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name 

in  print; 
A  book's  a  book,  although  there's 

nothing  m't. 


A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every 

trade 
Save  censure  —  critics  all  are  ready 

made. 
Take  hackneyed  jokes  from  Miller, 

got  by  rote. 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  mis- 
quote: 
A  mind  well  skilled  to  find  or  forge  a 

fault ; 
A  turn  for   punning,  —  call  it  Attic 

salt ; 
To  Jeffrey  go;  be  silent  and  discreet, 
His    pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds 

per  sheet. 
Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  lucky 

hit; 
Shrink    not   from  blasphemy,  'twill 

pass  for  wit ; 
Care    not    for   feeling  —  pass  your 

proper  jest. 
And    stand    a  critic,  hated,  yet  ca- 
ressed. 
And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  ? 

No  —  as  soon 
Seek    roses    in    December  —  ice   in 

June; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  com  in 

chaff; 
Believe  a  woman,  or  an  epitaph, 
Or  any  other  thing  that's  false,  before 
You  trust  in  critics,  who  themselves 

are  sore. 


Thomas  Campbell. 

SONG. 

To  Love  in  my  heart,  I  exclaimed,  t'other  morning. 
Thou  hast  dwelt  here  too  long,  little  lodger,  take  warning; 
Thou  Shalt  tempt  me  no  more  from  my  life's  sober  duty, 
To  go  gadding,  bewitched  by  the  young  eyes  of  beauty. 
For  weary's  the  w^ooing,  ah!  weary. 
When  an  old  man  will  have  a  young  dearie. 

The  god  left  mv  heart,  at  its  surly  reflections. 
But  came  back' on  pretext  of  some  sweet  recollections, 
And  he  made  me  forget  what  I  ought  to  remember. 
That  the  rosebud  of  June  cannot  bloom  in  November- 
Ah!  Tom,  'tis  all  o'er  with  thy  gay  days  — 
Write  psalms,  and  not  songs  for  the  ladies. 


70S 


CANNING, 


But  time's  been  so  far  from  my  wisdom  enriching, 
That  the  longer  I  live,  beauty  seems  more  bewitching; 
And  the  only  new  lore  my  experience  traces, 
Is  to  find  fresh  enchantment  in  magical  faces. 

How  weary  is  wisdom,  how  weary! 

When  one  sits  by  a  smiling  young  dearie! 

And  should  she  be  wroth  that  my  homage  pursues  her, 
I  will  turn  and  retort  on  my  lovely  accuser ; 
Who's  to  blame,  that  my  heart  by  your  image  is  haunted  ? 
It  is  you,  the  enchantress  —  not  I,  the  enchanted. 

Would  you  have  me  behave  more  discreetly, 

Beauty,  look  not  so  killingly  sweetly. 


TO  A    YOUNG  LADY, 

WHO  ASKED  ME  TO  WRITE  SOMETHING  ORIGINAL  FOR  HER  ALBUM 

An  original  something,  fair  maid,  you  would  win  me 

To  write  —  but  how  shall  I  begin  ? 
For  I  fear  I  have  nothing  original  in  me  — 

Excepting  Original  Sin ! 


George  Canning. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  GOTTINGEN. 

Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 

This  dungeon  that  I'm  rotting  in, 
i  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Sweet  kerchief,  checked  with  heaven- 
blue, 
Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting 
in  — 
Alas,  Matilda  then  was  true ! 
At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Barbs!  barbs!  alas!  how   swift  you 
flew, 
Her  neat  post-wagon  trotting  in ! 
Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view ; 
Forlorn  I  languished  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 


This  faded  form!  culo  pallid  hue! 
This  blood  my  veins    is    clotting 
in! 
My  years  are  many  —  they  were  few 
When  first  I  entered  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There    first    for    thee   my   passion 
grew. 
Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen ! 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  tu- 
tor, law  professor  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou,  vain  world, 
adieu. 
That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting 
in; 
Here  doomed  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
el, never  shall  I  see  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen. 
niversity  of  Gottingen, 


CARLE  TON,  709 


Will  Carleton.- 

THE  NEW-YEAR'S  BABY. 

"  Th'art  welcome,  litle  bonnie  bird, 
But  shouMn't  ha'  come  just  when  tha*  did. 

Teimes  are  bad."  —  Old  English  Ballad. 

Hoot,  ye  little  rascal !  ye  come  it  on  me  this  way 

Crowdin'  yerself  amongst  us  this  blusterin'  winter's  day 

Knowin'  that  we  already  have  three  of  ye,  and  seven, 

An'  tryin'  to  make  yerself  out  a  New-Year's  present  o'  heaveni 

Ten  of  ye  have  we  now,  sir,  for  this  world  to  abuse, 

An'  Bobbie  he  have  no  waistcoat;  and  Nellie  she  have  no  shoes; 

And  Samraie  he  have  no  shirt,  sir  (I  tell  it  to  his  shame) ; 

And  the  one  that  was  just  before  you  we  a' n't  had  time  to  name. 

An'  all  the  banks  be  smashin',  an'  on  us  poor  folks  fall; 
An'  boss  he  whittles  the  wages  when  work's  to  be  had  at  all; 
An'  Tom  he  have  cut  his  foot  off,  an'  lies  in  a  woful  plight; 
An'  all  of  us  wonders  at  moniin'  as  what  we  shall  eat  at  night. 

An'  but  for  your  father  an'  Sandy  a-findin'  somew'at  to  do. 
An'  but  for  the  preacher's  woman,  who  often  helps  us  through, 
An'  but  for  your  poor,  dear  mother  a-doin'  twice  her  part, 
Ye'd  'a'  seen  us  all  in  heaven  afore  ye  was  ready  to  start. 

An'  now  ye  have  come,  ye  rascal !  so  healthy  an'  fat  an'  sound, 
A  weighin',  I'll  wager  a  dollar,  the  full  of  a  dozen  pound; 
With  your  mother's  eyes  a-flashin',  yer  father's  flesh  an'  build, 
An'  a  good  big  mouth  an'  stomach  all  ready  to  be  filled. 

No,  no,  don't  cry,  my  baby;  hush  up,  my  pretty  one. 
Don't  get  my  chaff  in  yer  eye,  my  boy;  I  only  was  just  in  fun. 
Ye'll  like  us  when  ye  know  us,  although  we're  cur'ous  folks; 
But  we  don't  get  much  victual,  and  half  our  livin'  is  jokes. 

Why,  boy!  did  ye  take  me  in  earnest  ?    Come,  sit  upon  my  knee. 
I'll  tell  ye  a  secret,  youngster;  I'll  name  ye  after  me; 
Ye  shall  have  all  yer  brothers  an'  sisters  with  ye  to  play ; 
An'  ye  shall  have  yer  carriage,  an'  ride  out  every  day. 

Why,  boy,  do  ye  think  ye'll  suffer  ?    I'm  gettin'  a  trifle  old, 
But  it'll  be  many  years  yet  before  I  lose  my  hold; 
An'  if  I  should  fall  on  the  road,  boy,  still  them's  yer  brothers  there, 
An'  not  a  rogue  of  'em  ever  would  see  ye  harmed  a  hair. 

Say,  when  ye  come  from  heaven,  my  little  namesake  dear. 

Did  ye  see,  'mongst  the  little  girls  there,  a  face  like  this  one  here? 

That  was  yer  little  sister;  she  died  a  year  ago. 

An'  all  of  us  cried  like  babies  when  they  laid  her  under  the  snow. 

Hang  it!  if  all  the  rich  men  I  ever  see  or  knew 
Came  here  with  all  their  traps,  boy,  an'  offered  'em  for  you, 
I'd  show  'em  to  the  door,  sir,  so  quick  they'd  think  it  odd, 
Before  I'd  sell  to  another  my  New-Y''ear's  gift  from  God. 


710 


COLERIDGE. 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


FROM  "LINES   COMPOSED  IN  A 
CONCERT  room:' 

Nor  cold  nor  stern,  my  soul!  yet  I 
detest 
These  scented  rooms,  where  to  a 
gaudy  throng, 
Heaves    the    proud    harlot  her  dis- 
tended breast 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song. 

These  feel  not  Music's  genuine  power, 
nor  deign 
To  melt  at  Nature's  passion- war- 
bled plaint; 
But  when  the  long-breathed  singer's 
uptrilled  strain 
Bursts  in  a  squall  —  they  gape  for 
wonderment. 


NAMES. 


I  ASKED  my  fair,  one  happy  day. 
What  I  should  call  her  in  my  lay ; 

By  what  sweet  name  from  Rome 
or  Greece : 
Lalage,  Neaera,  Chloris, 
Sappho,  Lesbia,  or  Doris, 

Arethusa,  or  Lucrece. 

*'  Ah! "  replied  ray  gentle  fair, 

"  Beloved,  what  are  names  but  air  ? 

Choose  thou  whatever  suitsthe  line ; 
Call  me  Sappho,  call  me  Chloris. 
Call  me  Lalage  or  Doris, 

Only,  only  call  me  Thine." 


LINES  TO  A   COMIC  AUTHOR  ON 
AN  ABUSIVE  REVIEW. 

What  though  the  chilly  wide- 
mouthed  quacking  chorus 

From  the  rank  swamps  of  murk  Re- 
view-land croak ; 

So  was  it,  neighbor,  in  the  times  be- 
fore us. 

When  Momus,  throwing  on  his  attic 
cloak, 


Romped  with  the  Graces;  and  each 

tickled  Muse 
(That  Turk,    Dan    Phoebus,    whom 

bards  call  divine, 
Was  married  to  —  at  least,  he  kept  — 

all  nine) 
Fled,  but  still  with  reverted  faces  ran; 
Yet,  somewhat  the  broad  freedoms  to 

excuse. 
They  had  allured  the  audacious  Greek 

to  use. 
Swore  they  mistook  him  for  their  own 

good  man. 
This  Momus  —Aristophanes  on  earth 
Men  called  him — maugre  all  his  wit 

and  worth 
Was  croaked  and  gabbled  at.    How, 

then,  should  you. 
Or  I,  friend,  hope  to  'scape  the  skulk- 
ing crew  ? 
No!  laugh,  and  say  aloud,  in  tones 

of  glee, 
"  I  hate  the  quacking  tribe,  and  they 

hate  me!" 


FROM  "AN  ODE   TO   THE  RAIN." 

Composed  before  daylight,  on  the  morning  ap- 
pointed for  the  departure  of  a  ver^'  wortliy, 
but  not  very  pleasant  visitor,  whom  it  was 
feared  the  rain  might  detain. 

Though  you  should  come  again  to- 
morrow, 

And  bring  with  you  both  pain  and 
sorrow; 

Though  stomach  should  sicken  and 
knees  should  swell  — 

I'll  nothing  speak  of  you  but  well. 

But  only  now  for  this  one  day. 

Do  go,  dear  Rain !  do  go  away ! 

Dear  Rain!    I  ne'er  refused  to  say 
You're  a  good  creature  in  your  v>-ay ; 
Nay,  I  would  write  a  book  myself, 
Would  fit  a  parson's  lower  shelf. 
Showing  how  very  good  you  are. 
What  then  ?  sometimes  it  must  be 

fair! 
And  if  sometimes,  why  not  to-day  ? 
Do  go,  dear  Rain !  do  go  away  I 


COWPER. 


711 


Dear  Rain!  if  I've  been  cold  and 
shy, 

Take  no  offence !    I'll  tell  yon  why. 

A  dear  old  friend  e'en  now  is  here, 

And  with  him  came  my  sister  dear; 

After  long  absence  now  first  met. 

Long  months  by  pain  and  grief  be- 
set— 

With  three  dear  friends !  in  truth  we 
groan  — 

Impatiently  to  be  alone. 

We  three,  you  maik!  and  not  one 
more! 

The  strong  wish  makes  my  spirit  sore. 


We  have  so  much  to  talk  about, 
So  many  sad  things  to  let  out ; 
So  many  tears  in  our  eye-corners, 
Sitting  like  little  Jacky  Homers  — 
In  short,  as  soon  as  it  is  day. 
Do  go,  dear  Rain !  do  go  away ! 


EPIGRAM    ON  **TIIE   RIME    OF 
THE  ANCIENT  MARINER" 

Your  poem  must  eternal  be. 
Dear  sir;  it  cannot  fail; 

For,  'tis  incomprehensible. 
And  without  head  or  taiL 


William  Cowper. 


JOHN  GILPIN. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's   spouse  said    to   her 
dear  — 

"  Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 

No  holiday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day. 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

My  sister  and  my  sister's  child. 
Myself  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise ;  so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied  —  "  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one. 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

I  am  a  linen-draper  bold. 
As  all  the  world  doth  know. 

And  my  good  friend  the  calender 
Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 


Quoth  Mrs.   Gilpin —  "  That's  well 
said; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear. 
We  will  be  furnished  with  onr  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife, 
O'er  joyed  was  he  to  find         [bent, 

That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was 
She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was 
brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off   the  chaise  was 
stayed. 

Where  they  did  all  get  in; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went 
the  wheels. 

Were  never  folks  so  glad, 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 
Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 

And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride. 
But  soon  came  down  again ; 


712 


COWPEB. 


For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he 
saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came;  for  loss  of  time. 
Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  know. 
Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  down 

of  O  1  vo 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind  !" 

"  Good  lack!"  quoth  he;  "  yet  bring 
it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  ray  trusty  sword 

When  1  do  exercise.'' 

Now  Mrs.  Gilpin  (careful  soul) 
Had  two  stone  bottles  found. 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 
And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side. 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all.  that  he  might  be 
Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 

His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and 
neat, 
He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 
Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So  "Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried; 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain ; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 


So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  hii 
hands. 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  wlio  never  in  that  sort 
Had  handled  been  before. 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 
Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 
Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 
At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bottles  he  had  slung ; 

A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 
As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The   dogs    did   bark,    the    children 
screamed. 
Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And    every  soul   cried    out,  "  Well 
done!" 
As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin  —  who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around  — 
*'  He  carries  weight!  he  rides  a  racel 

'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound !  " 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike-men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 
His  reeking  head  full  low. 

The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 
Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
WTiich  made  his  horse's  flanks  to 
smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 


COWPER. 


713 


But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 
With  leathern  girdle  braced; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 
Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 
These  gambols  did  he  play, 

Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 
On  both  sides  of  the  way. 

Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 
Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin!  —  Here's 
the  house,"  — 
They  all  aloud  did  cr>'; 
"The   dinner   waits,    and    we   are 
tired:" 
Said  Gilpin— "So  am  I." 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there ; 
For  why  ?  —  His  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong; 
So  did  he  fly  —  which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will. 
Till  at  his  friend's  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 
His  neighbor  in  such  trim. 

Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 
And  thus  accosted  him : 

"What   news?   what    news?   your 
tidings  tell, 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall ; 
Bay  why  bare-headed  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ?" 


Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke;— 

"  I  came  because  your  horse  would 
come. 

And,  if  1  well  forbode. 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here  — 

They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin. 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in. 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat 
and  wigr— 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  showed  his  ready  wit; 

"  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 
They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 
That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John  —  "It  is  my  wedding-day, 
And  ail  the  world  would  stare 

If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 
And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So,  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"  1  am  in  haste  to  dine; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came 
here, 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah  I  luckless    speech,  and   bootless 
boast ! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear; 
For  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 


714 


COWPER. 


Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first ; 
For  why  ?  —  They  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 
'     She  pulled  out  half  a  crown ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 
That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 

"  This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring 
back 
My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 
John  coming  back  amain, 

Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 
By  catching  at  his  rein; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  post-boy  at  his  heels. 

The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to 
miss 
The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly. 
With    post-boy    scampering    in    the 
rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry : 

**  Stop  thief !  stop  thief !  —  a  highway- 
man! " 
Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that 
way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike-gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space; 
The  tollmen  thinking  as  before 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did ;  and  won  it  too ; 

For  he  got  first  to  town; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 


Now  let  us  sing.  Long  live  the  king, 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he; 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see! 


[From  Conversation.'] 
THE   TONGUE. 

Words    learned  by  rote,    a    parrot 

may  rehearse. 
But  talking  is  not  always  to  converse; 
Not  more  distinct  from  harmony  di- 
vine 
The  constant  creaking  of  a  country 

sign. 
As  alphabets  in  ivory  employ 
Hour  after  hour  the  yet  unlettered 

boy, 
Sorting  and  puzzling  with  a  deal  of 

glee 
Those  seeds  of    science   called  his 

ABC; 
So   language  in    the  mouth  of  the 

adult, 
(Witness  its  insignificant  result,) 
Too  often  proves  an  implement  of 

play, 
A  toy  to  sport  with,  and  pass  time 

away. 
Collect   at   evening   what   the   day 

brought  forth. 
Compress  the  sum  into  its  solid  worth, 
And  if  it  weigh  the  importance  of  a 

fly, 

The  scales  are  false,  or  algebra  a  lie. 


[From  Conversation."] 
THE   UNCERTAIN  MAN. 

DuBius  is  such  a  scrupulous  good 

man  — 
Yes,  you  may  catch  him  tripping  — 

if  you  can. 
He  would  not  with   a  peremptory 

tone 
Assert  the  nose  upon  his  face  his 

own: 
With  hesitation  admirably  slow. 
He  humbly  hopes  —  presumes  —  it 

may  be  so. 


COWPER. 


715 


His  evidence,  if  he  were  called  by 

law 
To  swear  to  some  enormity  he  saw, 
For  want  of  prominence  and  just  re- 
lief, 
Would  hang  an  honest  man  and  save 

a  thief. 
Through    constant  dread    of  giving 

truth  offence. 
He  ties  up  all  his  hearers  in  suspense ; 
Knows  what  he  knows  as  if  he  knew 

it  not; 
What  he  remembers  seems  to  have 

forgot ; 
His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall. 
Centring  at  last  in  having  none  at 

all. 


[From  Conversation.] 
THE  EMPHATIC   TALKER. 

The  emphatic  speaker  dearly  loves 

to  oppose, 
In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  nose. 
As  if  the  gnomon  on  his  neighbor's 

phiz. 
Touched  with  the  magnet,  had  at- 
tracted his. 
His  whispered  theme,  dilated  and  at 

large. 
Proves  after   all    a  windgun's  airy 

charge  — 
An  extract  of  his  diary, —  no  more, — 
A  tasteless  journey  of  the  day  before. 
He  walked  abroad,  o'ertaken  in  the 

rain. 
Called  on  a  friend,  drank  tea,  stepped 

home  again. 
Resumed  his  purpose,  had  a  world  of 

talk 
With  one  he  stumbled  on,  and  lost 

his  walk. 
I  intemipt  him  with  a  sudden  bow, 
"Adieu,  dear    sir!  lest  you   should 

lose  it  now." 


[Fi'oni  Conversation.] 
DESCANTING  ON  ILLNESS. 

Some  men  employ  their  health,  an 

ugly  trick, 
In  making  known  how  oft  they  have 

been  sick. 


And  give  us  in  recitals  of  disease, 

A  doctor's  trouble,  but  without  the 
fees; 

Relate  how  many  weeks  they  kept 
their  bed, 

How  an  emetic  or  cathartic  sped : 

Nothing  is  slightly  touched,  much 
less  forgot. 

Nose,  ears,  and  eyes  seem  present  on 
the  spot. 

Now  the  distemper,  spite  of  draught 
or  pill. 

Victorious  seemed,  and  now  the  doc- 
tor's skill ; 

And  now  —  alas,  for  unforeseen  mis- 
haps I 

They  put  on  a  damp  nightcap  and 


They  thought  they  must  have  died, 

they  were  so  bad ; 
Their  peevish   hearers  almost  wish 

they  had. 


[From  Conversation.] 

A    FAITHFUL    PICTURE    OF   ORDI- 
NARY SOCIETY. 

The  circle  formed,  we  sit  in  silent 

state. 
Like  figures  drawn  upon  a  dial-plate ; 
"Yes,  ma'am,"  and  "No,  ma'am," 

uttered  softly,  ^how 
Every  five  minutes  how  the  minutes 

go; 
Each    individual,    suffering   a    con- 
straint — 
Poetry    may,    but     colors    cannot, 

paint,  — 
As  if  in  close  committee  on  the  sky. 
Reports  it  hot  or  cold,  or  wet  or 

dry. 
And  finds  a  changing  clime  a  happy 

source 
Of   wise    reflection   and   well-timed 

discourse. 
We  next  inquire,  but  softly  and   by 

stealth, 
Like     conservators    of     the    public 

health. 
Of  epidemic  throats,  if  such  there  are 
Of  coughs  and  rheums,  and  phthisic 

and  catarrh. 


716 


COWPER. 


That  theme  exhausted,  a  wide  chasm 

ensues, 
Filled    up    at    last  with  interesting 

news, 
Who  danced  with  whom,  and  who 

are  like  to  wed; 
And    who    is    hanged,   and   who  is 

brought  to  bed; 
But  fear  to  call  a  more  important 

cause, 
As  if  'twere  treason  against  English 

laws. 
The  visit  paid,  with  ecstasy  we  come, 
As  from  a  seven  years'  transportation, 

home, 
And  there  resume  an  unembarrassed 

brow. 
Recovering  what  we  lost  we  know 

not  how. 
The  faculties  that  seemed  reduced  to 

nought. 
Expression    and    the   privilege    of 

thought. 


{From  Conversation. "] 
THE  CAPTIOUS. 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every 

touch. 
You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much : 
You  speak  with  life  in  hopes  to  en- 
tertain,. 
Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the 

brain ; 
You  fall  at  once  into  a  lower  key, 
That's  worse — the  drone-pipe  of  an 

humble-bee. 
The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong 

a  light. 
You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain  —  now 

'tis  night. 
He  shakes  with  cold,  you  stir  the  fire 

and  strive 
To  make    a  blaze  —  that's  roasting 

him  alive. 
Serve    him    with    venison,    and    he 

chooses  fish ; 
With  sole —  that's  just  the  sort  he 

would  not  wish. 
He  takes  what  he  at  first  professed  to 

loathe, 
And  in  due  time  feeds  heartily  on 

both. 


PAIRING-TIME  ANTICIPATED. 
A  FABLE. 

I  SHALL  not  ask  Jean  Jacques  Rous- 
seau 
If  birds  confabulate  or  no; 
'Tis  clear  tliat  they  were  always  able 
To  hold  discourse,  at  least  in  fable; 
And  even  the  child  who  knows  no 

better 
Than  to  interpret  by  the  letter, 
A  story  of  a  cock  and  bull 
Must  have  a  most  uncommon  skull. 

It  chanced  then  on  a  winters  day, 
But  warm  and  bright  and  calm  as 

May, 
The  birds,  conceiving  a  design 
To  forestall  sweet  St.  Valentine, 
In  many  an  orchard,  copse,  and  grove 
Assembled  on  affairs  of  love. 
And  with  much  twitter  and   much 

chatter 
Began  to  agitate  the  matter. 
At  length  a  Bulfinch,  who  could  boast 
More  years    and   wisdom  than  the 

most. 
Entreated,  opening  wide  his  beak, 
A  moment's  liberty  to  speak; 
And,  silence  publicly  enjoined, 
Delivered  briefly  thus  his  mind  : 
"  My  friends!  be  cautious  how  you 
treat 
The  subject  upon  which  we  meet; 
I  fear  we  shall  have  winter  yet." 
A  Finch,  whose  tongue  knew  no 
control. 
With  golden  wing  and  sal  in  poll, 
A  last  year's  bird,  who  ne'er  had  tried 
What  marriage  means,  thus  pert  re- 
plied: 
"  Methinks  the  gentleman,"  quoth 
she, 
"Opposite  in  the  apple-tree, 
By  his  good-will  would  keep  us  single 
Till  yonder  heaven   and  earth  shall 

mingle ; 
Or  (which  is  likelier  to  befall) 
Till  death  exterminates  us  all. 
I  marry  without  more  ado ; 
My  dear  Dick  Redcap,  what  say  you?" 
Dick  heard,  and  tweedling,  ogling, 
bridling. 
Turning  short  roimd,  strutting,  and 
sidling, 


CBABBE. 


717 


Attested,  glad,  his  approbation 
Of  an  immediate  conjugation. 
Their  sentiments  so  well  expressed 
Influenced  mightily  the  rest; 
All  paired,  and  each  pair  built  a  nest. 
But  though  the  birds  were  thus  in 

haste, 
The  leaves  came  on  not  quite  so  fast, 
And  destiny,  that  sometimes  bears 
An  aspect  stern  on  man's  affairs, 
Not  altogether  smiled  on  theirs. 
The  wind,  of  late,  breathed  gently 

forth, 
Now  shifted  east,  and  east  by  north ; 
Bare  trees  and  shrubs  but  ill,  you 

know,  [snow: 

Could  shelter   them   from    rain  or 


Stepping  into  their  nests  they  pad- 
dled. 
Themselves  were  chilled,  their  eggs 

were  addled ; 
Soon  every  father  bird  and  mother 
Grew  quarrelsome,  and  pecked  each 

other. 
Parted  without  the  least  regret. 
Except  that  they  had  ever  met, 
And  learned  in  future  to  be  wiser 
Than  to  neglect  a  good  adviser. 

MORAL. 

Misses !  the  tale  that  I  relate 
This  lesson  seems  to  carry  — 

Choose  not  alone  a  proper  mate. 
But  proper  time  to  marry. 


George  Crabbe. 


[From  The  Newspaper.] 
THE  RELIGIOUS  JOURNAL. 

Then,  lo!  the  sainted  Monitor  is 
born. 

Whose  pious  face  some  sacred  texts 
adorn. 

As  artful  sinners  cloak  the  secret  sin. 

To  veil  with  seeming  grace  the  guile 
within; 

So  moral  essays  on  his  front  appear. 

But  all  his  carnal  business  in  the 
rear; 

The  fresh-coined  lie,  the  secret  whis- 
pered last. 

And  all  the  gleanings  of  the  six  days 
past. 


iFrom  The  Newspaper.] 
THE  READERS   OF  DAILIES. 

Grave    politicians    look    for    facts 

alone. 
And  gravely  add  conjectures  of  their 

own : 
The    sprightly    nymph,   who    never 

broke  her  rest, 
For  tottering  crowns,  or  mighty  lands 

oppressed, 


Finds  broils  and  battles,  but  neglects 
them  all 

For  songs  and  suits,  a  birthday,  or  a 
ball: 

The  keen  warm  man  o'erlooks  each 
idle  tale 

For  "Moneys  Wanted,"  and  "Es- 
tates for  Sale;" 

While  some  with  equal  minds  to  all 
attend. 

Pleased  with  each  part,  and  grieved 
to  find  an  end. 


[From  The  Neiospaper.] 
REPORTERS. 

First,  from  each  brother's  hoard  a 

part  they  draw, 
A  mutual  theft  that  never  feared  a 

law; 
Whate'er  they  gain,  to  each  man's 

portion  fall. 
And  read  it  once,  you  read  it  through 

them  all : 
For  this  their  runners  ramble  day  and 

night, 
To  drag  each  lurking  deep  to  open 

light; 


718 


CRABBE. 


For  daily  bread  the  dirty  trade  they 

ply, 

Coin  their  fresh  tales,  and  live  upon 

the  lie ; 
Like  bees  for  honey,  forth  for  news 

they  spring, — 
Industrious  creatures!   ever  on  the 

wing; 
Home  to  their  several  cells  they  bear 

the  store. 
Culled  of  all  kinds,  then  roam  abroad 

for  more. 


[From  Physic] 
QUACKS. 

Tincture  or  syrup,  lotion,  drop,  or 
pill, 

All  tismpt  the  sick  to  trust  the  lying 
bill; 

And  twenty  names  of  cobblers  turned 
to  squires, 

Aid  the  bold  language  of  these  blush- 
less  liars. 

There  are  among  them  those  who  can- 
not read, 

And  yet  they'll  buy  a  patent,  and 
succeed ; 

Will  dare  to  promise  dying  sufferers 
aid. 

For  who,  when  dead,  can  threaten  or 
upbraid  ? 


And  then,  in  many  a  paper  through 

the  year. 
Must   cures   and    cases,   oaths  and 

proofs  appear; 
Men  snatched  from  graves,  as  they 

were  dropping  in. 
Their  lungs  coughed  up,  their  bones 

pierced  through  their  skin ; 
Their  liver  all  one  scirrhus,  and  the 

frame 
Poisoned  with  evils  which  they  dare 

not  name; 
Men  w'ho  spent  all  upon  physicians' 

fees. 
Who  never  slept,  nor  had  a  moment's 

ease, 
Are  now  as  roaches  sound,  and  all  as 

brisk  as  bees. 


[From  Law.] 
SLY  LAWYERS. 

Lo !  that  small  office !  there  th'  in- 
cautious guest 
Goes  blindfold  in,  and  that  maintains 

the  rest; 
There  in  his  web,  th'  observant  spider 

lies,  [flies; 

And  peers  about  for  fat,  intruding 
Doubtful  at  first,  he  hears  the  distant 

hum. 
And  feels  them   flutt'ring   as    they 

nearer  come; 
They  buzz  and  blink,  and  doubtfully 

they  tread 
On  the  strong  bird-lime  of  the  utmost 

thread ; 
But  when  they're  once  entangled  by 

the  gin, 
With  what  an  eager  clasp  he  draws 

them  in!  [delay, 

Nor  shall  they  'scape  till  after  long 
And  all  that  sw^eetens  life  is  drawn 

away. 


[From  The  Patron.] 

ADVICE  TO  ONE  OF  SIMPLE  LIFE 
ENTERING  SOCIETY. 

In  silent  ease,  at  least  in  silence, 

dine, 
Nor  one  opinion  start  of  food  or  wine: 
Thou  know'st  that  all  the  science  thou 

canst  boast. 
Is  of  thy  father's  simple  boiled  and 

roast. 
Nor  always  these ;  he  sometimes  saved 

his  cash. 
By  interlinear  days  of  frugal  hash : 
Wine  hadst  thou  seldom;  wilt  thou 

be  so  vain 
As  to  decide  on  claret  or  champagne  ? 
Dost  thou  from  me  derive  this  taste 

sublime. 
Who  order  port  the  dozen  at  a  time  ? 
When  (every  glass  held  precious  in 

our  eyes) 
We  judged  the  value  by  the  bottle's 

size:  [sume, 

Then  never  merit  for  thy  praise  as- 
Its  worth  well  knows  each  servant  in 

the  room. 


GRANGE. 


tm 


[Fnm  The  Patron.] 

THE   YOUNG  POET'S   VISIT  TO 
THE  HALL. 

And  now  arriving  at  tlie  Hall,  he 

tried 
For  air  composed,  serene  and  satis- 
fied; 
As  he  had  practised  in  his  room  alone, 
And  there  acquired  a  free  and  easy 

tone; 
There  he  had  said,  "Whatever  the 

degree 
A  man  obtains,  what  more  than  man 

is  he?" 
And  when  arrived  —  "This  room  is 

but  a  room. 
Can  aught  we  see  the  steady  soul 

o'ercome  ? 
Let   me    in    all    a    manly   firmness 

show. 
Upheld  by  talents,  and  their  value 

know." 


This  reason  urged;  but  it  surpassed 

his  skill 
To  be  in  act  as  manly  as  in  will ; 
When  he  his  lordship  and  the  lady 

saw, 
Brave  as  he  was,  he  felt  oppressed 

with  awe ; 
And.  spite  of  verse,  that  so  much 

praise  had  won. 
The  poet  found  he  was  the  bailiff's 

son. 
But  dinner  came,  and  the  succeed- 
ing hours 
Fixed  his  weak  nerves,  and  raised  his 

failing  powers : 
Praised  and  assured,  he  ventured  once 

or  twice 
On  some  remark,  and  bravely  broke 

the  ice; 
So  that  at  night,  reflecting  on  his 

words. 
He  found,  in  time,  he  might  con-= 

verse  with  lords. 


Christopher  Pearse  Cranch. 


SHELLING   PEAS. 


No,  Tom,  you  may  banter  as  much  as  you  please; 

Biit  it's  all  the  result  of  the  shellin'  them  peas. 

Why,  I  had  n't  the  slightest  idee,  do  you  know, 

That  so  serious  a  matter  would  out  of  it  grow. 

I  tell  you  what,  Tom,  I  do  feel  kind  o'  scared. 

I  dreamed  it,  I  hoped  it,  but  never  once  dared 

To  breathe  it  to  her.     And  besides,  I  must  say 

I  always  half  fancied  she  fancied  Jim  Wray, 

So  I  felt  kind  o'  stuffy  and  proud,  and  took  care 

To  be  out  of  the  way  when  that  feller  was  there 

A  danglin'  around;  for  thinks  I,  if  it's  him 

That  Katy  likes  best,  what's  the  use  lookin'  grim 

At  Katy  or  Jim,  —  for  it's  all  up  with  me; 

And  I'd  better  jest  let  'em  alone,  do  you  see  ? 

But  you  would  n't  have  thought  it;  that  girl  never  keered 

The  snap  of  a  pea-pod  for  Jim's  bushy  beard. 

Well,  here's  how  it  was.     I  was  takin'  some  berries 

Across  near  her  garden  to  leave  at  Aunt  Mary's; 

When,  jest  as  I  come  to  the  old  ellum-tree. 

All  alone  in  the  shade,  that  June  mornin',  was  she  — 

Shellin'  peas  —  setting  there  on  a  garden  settee. 

I  swan,  she  was  handsomer  'n  ever  I  seen. 

Like  a  rose  all  alone  in  a  moss-work  o'  green. 


720  CBANOH. 


Well,  there  wasn't  no  use;  so,  says  I,  I'll  jest  linger 

And  gaze  at  her  here,  hid  behind  a  syringa. 

But  she  heard  me  a  movin',  and  looked  a  bit  frightened, 

So  I  come  and  stood  near  her.     I  fancied  she  brightened, 

And  seemed  sort  o'  pleased.     So  I  hoped  she  was  well ; 

And  —  would  she  allow  me  to  help  her  to  shell  ? 

For  she  sot  with  a  monstrous  big  dish  full  of  peas 

Jest  fresh  from  the  vines,  which  she  held  on  her  knees. 

"  May  I  help  you.  Miss  Katy  ?  "  says  I.     "As  you  please, 

Mr.  Baxter,"  says  she.     '•  But  you're  busy,  I  guess  "  — 

Glancin'  down  at  my  berries,  and  then  at  her  dress. 

"  Not  the  least.     There's  no  hurry.     It  ain't  very  late; 

And  I'd  rather  be  here,  and  Aunt  Mary  can  wait." 

So  I  sot  down  beside  her;  an'  as  nobody  seen  us, 

1  jest  took  the  dish,  and  I  held  it  between  us. 

And  I  thought  to  myself  I  must  make  an  endeavor 

To  know  which  she  likes,  Jim  or  me,  now  or  never! 

But  I  couldn't  say  nothin'.     We  sot  there  and  held 

That  green  pile  between  us.    She  shelled,  and  I  sheiled; 

And  pop  went  the  pods;  and  I  couldn't  help  thinkin' 

Of  popping  the  question.     A  kind  of  a  sinkin' 

Come  over  my  spirits;  till  at  last  I  got  out, 

*'  Mister  Wray's  an  admirer  of  yours,  I've  no  doubt 

You  see  him  quite  often."     "  Well,  sometimes.     But  why 

And  what  if  I  did  ?"     "  O,  well,  nothin',"  says  I. 

*'  Some  folks  says  you're  goin'  to  marry  him,  though." 

*'  Who  says  so  ? "  says  she;  and  she  flared  up  like  tow 

When  you  throw  in  a  match.     "  Well,  some  folks  that  I  know." 

*'  'T  ain't  true,  sir,"  says  she.     And  she  snapped  a  big  pod, 

Till  the  peas,  right  and  left,  flew  all  over  the  sod. 

Then  I  looked  in  her  eyes,  but  she  only  looked  down 

With  a  blush  she  tried  to  chase  off  with  a  frown. 

"  Then  it's  somebody  else  you  like  better,"  says  I. 

"  No,  it  ain't  though,"  says  she;  and  I  thought  she  would  cry. 

Then  I  tried  to  say  somethin' ;  it  stuck  in  my  throat, 

And  all  my  idees  were  upset  and  afloat. 

But  I  said  I  knew  somebody  'd  loved  her  so  long — 

Though  he  never  had  told  her  —  with  feelin's  so  strong 

He  was  ready  to  die  at  her  feet,  if  she  chosed. 

If  she  only  could  love  him !  —  I  hardly  supposed 

That  she  cared  for  him  much,  though.     And  so  Tom, — and  so,— 

For  I  thought  that  I  saw  how  the  matter  would  go, — 

With  my  heart  all  a  jumpin'  with  rapture,  I  found 

I  had  taken  her  hand,  and  my  arm  was  around 

Her  waist  ere  I  knew  it,  and  she  with  her  head 

On  my  shoulder,  — but  no,  I  won't  tell  what  she  said. 

The  birds  sang  above  us;  our  secret  was  theirs; 

The  leaves  whispered  soft  in  the  wandering  airs. 

I  tell  you  the  world  was  a  new  world  to  me. 

I  can  talk  of  these  things  like  a  book  now,  you  see. 

But  the  peas  ?    Ah,  the  peas  in  the  pods  were  a  mess 

Rather  bigger  than  those  that  we  shelled,  you  may  guess. 

It's  risky  to  set  with  a  girl  shellin'  peas. 

You  may  tease  me  now,  Tom,  just  as  much  as  you  please. 


CRANCH, 


721 


THE  DISPUTE  OF  THE  SEVEN  DAYS. 

Once  on  a  time  the  days  of  the  week 
Quarrelled  and  made  bad  weather. 

The  point  was  which  of  the  seven 
was  best; 
So  they  all  disputed  together. 

And   Monday   said,    "I    wash   the 
clothes"; 
And  Tuesday  said,  "  I  air  'em  " ; 
And  Wednesday  said,   "I  iron  the 
shirts"; 
And  Thursday  said,  "  I  wear  'em." 

And  Friday,  "  I'm  the  day  for  fish  " ; 

And    Saturday,    *'  Children    love 

me"; 

And  Sunday,   "I  am    the  Sabbath 

day, 

I'm  sure  there  are  none  above  me." 

One   said,    "  I    am    the    fittest   for 
work  " ; 
And  one,  "  I  am  fittest  for  leisure." 
Another,  "  I'm  best  for  prayer  and 
praise";  jure." 

And  another,  "I'm  best  for  pleas- 
Arguing    thus,    they    flapped    their 
wings, 
And  puffed  up  every  feather; 
They  blew  and  rained  and  snowed 
and  hailed: 
There  never  was  seen  such  weather. 

Old  Father  Time  was  passing  by, 
And  heard  the  hurly-burly. 

Said  he,   "  Here's  something  going 
wrong ; 
It's  well  I  was  up  so  early. 

"  These  children  of  mine  have  lost 
their  wits 

And  seem  to  be  all  non  compos. 
I  never  knew  them  to  gabble  thus. 

Hollo  there! — stop  the  rumpus! 

"  1  should  think  you  a  flock  of  angry 
geese. 
To  hear  your  screaming  and  bawl- 
ing. 
Indeed,  it  would  seem  by  the  way  it 
snows, 
Goose-feathers  are  certainly  falling. 


"You.  Sunday,  sir,  with  your  starched 
cravat. 

Black  coat,  and  church-veneering; 
Tell  me  the  cause  of  this  angry  spat ; 

Speak  loud,— I  am  hard  of  hearing. 

"  You  are  the  foremost  talker  here; 

The  wisest  sure  you  should  be. 
I  little  thought  such  a  deuce  of  a  row 

As  you  are  all  making,  could  be." 

Then  Sunday  said,  "  Grood  Father 
Time, 

The  case  is  clear  as  noonday; 
For  ever  since  the  world  was  made, 

The  Lord's  day  has  been  Sunday. 

"The    church  —  "      Here   Monday 
started  up: 
"  The    folks  are   glad  when  you 
leave  'em; 
They  all  want  me  to  give  'em  work, 
And  the  pleasures  of  which  you 
bereave  'em." 

But  Tuesday  said,    "I  finish  youi 

chores. 

And  do  them  as  fine  as  a  fiddle." 

And  Wednesday,  "  I  am  the  best  of 

you  all 

Because  I  stand  in  the  middle." 

And    Thursday,    Friday,    Saturday, 
each 
Said  things  that  I  can't  remember. 
And  so  they  might  have  argued  their 
case 
From  March  until  December. 

But  Father  Tempus  cut  them  short: 
"  My  children,  why  this  pother  ? 

There  is  no  best,  there  is  no  worst; 
One  day 's  just  like  another. 

"  To  God's  great  eye  all  shine  alike 
As  in  their  primal  beauty. 

That  day  is  best  whose  deeds  are  best, 
That  worst  that  fails  in  duty. 

"  Where  Justice  lights  the  passing 
hours, 

Where  Love  is  wise  and  tender, 
There  beams  the  radiance  of  the  skies, 

There  shines  a  day  of  splendor." 


722 


DOBS  ON—  DRYDEN, 


Austin  Dobson. 

MORE  POETS    YET! 

"  More  poets  yet! "  —  I  hear  him  say, 
Ahning  his  heavy  hand  to  slay;  — 

"  Despite  my  skill  and  '  swashing  blow,* 
They  seem  to  sprout  where'er  1  go;  — 
I  killed  a  host  but  yesterday ! " 

Slash  on,  O  Hercules!    You  may; 
Your  task's  at  best  a  Hydra-fray; 
And  though  you  cut,  not  less  will  grow 
More  poets  yet ! 

Too  arrogant !     For  who  shall  stay 
The  first  blind  motions  of  the  May  ? 
Who  shall  outblot  the  morning  glow, 
Or  stem  the  full  heart's  overflow  ? 
Who  ?    There  will  rise,  till  time  decay, 
More  poets  yet ! 


John  Dryden. 


[From  ^^  Absalom  and  Achitophel."] 
A  CHARACTER. 

A  MAN  so  various  that  he  seemed  to 

be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome: 
Stiff    in    opinions,    always    in    the 

wrong ; 
Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing 

long; 
But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving 

moon. 
Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and 

buffoon : 
Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhym- 
ing, drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died 

in  thinking. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour 

employ. 
With  something  new  to  wish,  or  to 

enjoy ! 
Kailing  and  praising  were  his  usual 

themes ; 


And  both,  to  show  his  judgment  in 
extremes : 

So  over-violent,  or  over-civil. 

That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or 
Devil. 

In  squandering  wealth  was  his  pecu- 
liar art ; 

Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert. 

Beggared  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found 
too  late ; 

He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his 
estate. 


FROM  **THE  COCK  AND  THE  FOX.'* 

A  FOX,  full-fraught  with   seeming 

sanctity, 
That  feared  an  oath,  but,  like  the 

devil,  would  lie; 
Who  looked  like  Lent,  and  had  the 

holy  leer. 
And  durst  not  sin  before  he  said  hia 

prayer; 


DRYDEN. 


723 


This  pious  cheat,  that  never  sucked 

the  biood, 
Nor  chewed  the  flesh  of   lambs, — 

but  when  lie  could ; 
Had   passed  three  summers   in  the 

neighboring  wood : 
Anil  musing  long,  whom  next  to  cir- 
cumvent, 
On    Chanticleer    his   wicked    fancy 

bent; 
And  in  his  high  imagination  cast. 
By  stratagem  to  gratify  his  taste. 
The  plot  contrived,  before  the  break 

of  day, 
Saint  Reynard  through  the  hedge  had 

made  his  way ; 
The  pale  was  next,  but  proudly  with 

a  bound 
He  leapt  the  fence  of  the  forbidden 

ground : 
Yet  fearing  to  be  seen,  within  a  bed 
Of  coleworts  he  concealed  his  wily 

head; 
Then    skulked  till    arftemoon,    and 

watched  his  time, 
(As  murderers  use)  to  perpetrate  his 

crime. 

The  cock,  that  of  his  flesh  was  ever 

free. 
Sung  merrier  than  the  mermaid  in  the 

sea: 
And  so  befell,  that  as  he  cast  his  eye 
Among  the  coleworts  on  a  butterfly, 
He  saw  false  Reynard  where  he  lay 

full  low: 
I  need  not  swear  he  had  no  list  to 

crow :  , 

But  cried,  cock,  cock,  anil  gave  a  sud- 
den start, 
Xs  sore  dismayed  and  frighted  at  his 

heart. 
For  birds  and  beasts,  informed  by 

Nature,  know 
Kinds  opposite  to  theirs,  and  fly  their 

foe. 
So  Chanticleer,  who    never    saw    a 

fox, 
Yet  shunn'd  him  as  a  sailor  shuns  the 

rocks. 
But  the  false  loon,  who  could  not 

work  his  will 
By  open  force,  employed  his  flattering 

skill; 


I  hope,  my  lord,  said  he,  I  not  offend; 
Are  you  afraid  of  me,  that  am  your 

friend  ? 
I  were  a  beast   indeed   to  do  you 

wrong, 
I,  who  have  loved  and  honored  you  so 

long: 
Stay,   gentle  sir,  nor  take   a   false 

alarm. 
For  on  my  soul  I  never  meant  you 

harm. 
I  come  no  spy,  nor  as  a  traitor  press, 
To  learn  the  secrets  of  your  soft  re- 
cess: 
Far  be  from  Reynard  so  profane  a 

thought, 
But  by  the  sweetness  of  your  voice 

was  brought : 
For,  as  I  bid  my  beads,  by  chance  I 

heard 
The  song  as  of  an  angel  in  the  yard ; 

My  lord,  your   sire   familiarly    I 

knew, 
A  peer  deserving  such  a  son  as  you: 
He,  with  your  lady-mother,  (whom 

Heaven  rest) 
Has  often  graced  my  house,  and  been 

my  guest : 
To  view  his  living  features  does  me 

good. 
For  I  am  your  poor  neighbor  in  the 

wood ; 
And  in  my  cottage  should  be  proud 

to  see 
The   worthy   heir   of    my   friend's 

family. 
But  since  1  speak  of  singing,  let 

me  say. 
As  with  an  upright  heart  I  safely 

may. 
That,  save  yourself,  there  breathes 

not  on  the  ground 
One  like  your  father  for  a  silver- 
sound,  [day, 
So  sweetly  would  he  wake  the  winter- 
That  matrons  to  the  church  mistook 

their  way. 
And  thought  they  heard  the  merry 

organ  play. 
And  he  to  raise  his  voice  with  artful 

care, 
(What  will  not   beaux   attempt  to 

please  the  fair  ?) 


724 


DRYDEK 


On  tiptoe  stood  to  sing  with  greater 

strength, 
And  stretch 'd  his  comely  neck  at  all 

the  length: 
And  while  he  strained  his  voice  to 

pierce  the  skies, 
As  saints  in  raptures  use,  would  shut 

his  eyes, 
That  the  sound  striving  through  the 

narrow  throat. 
His  winking  might  avail  to  mend  the 

note. 

The  cock  was  pleased  to  hear  him 

speak  so  fair. 
And  proud  beside,  as  solar  people 

are; 
Nor  could  the  treason  from  the  truth 

descry, 
So  was  he  ravish'd  with  this  flattery: 
So  much  the  more,  as  from  a  little 

elf, 
He  had  a  high  opinion  of  himself ; 
Though  sickly,  slender,  and  not  large 

of  limb, 
Concluding  all  the  world  was  made 

for  him. 

This    Chanticleer,   of   whom   the 

story  sings, 
Stood  high  upon  his  toes,  and  clapp'd 

his  wings ; 
Then  stretch' d  his  neck,  and  wink'd 

with  both  his  eyes. 
Ambitious  as  he  sought  the  Olympic 

prize. 
But  while  he  pained  himself  to  raise 

his  note. 
False  Reynard  rushed,   and  caught 

him  by  the  throat. 
Then  on  his  back  he  laid  the  precious 

load, 
And  sought  his  wonted  shelter  of  the 

wood ; 
Swiftly  he  made  his  way,  the  mischief 

done. 
Of    all  unheeded,   and    pursued  by 

none. 

But  see  how  Fortune  can  confound 
the  wise. 
And  when  they  least  expect  it,  turn 
the  dice. 


The  captive  cock,  who  scarce  could 

draw  his  breath, 
And    lay  within    the  very  jaws  of 

death ; 
Yet  in  this  agony  his  fancy  wrought. 
And  fear   supplied    him    with    this 

happy  thought: 
Yours  is  the  prize,  victorious  prince, 

said  he. 
The  vicar  my  defeat,   and    all  the 

village  see, 
Enjoy  your    friendly  fortune  while 

you  may. 
And  bid  the  churls  that  envy  you  the 

prey, 
Call  back  their  mongrel  curs,   and 

cease  their  cry. 
See,  fools,  the  shelter  of  the  wood  is 

nigh. 
And  Chanticleer  in  your  despite  shall 

die. 
He  shall  be  plucked  and  eaten  to  the 

bone. 
'Tis  well  adv^ed,   in  faith  it  shall 

be  done; 
This  Reynard  said:  but  as  the  word 

he  spoke. 
The  prisoner  with  a  spring  from  pris- 
on broke: 
Then  stretch' d  his  feathered  fans  with 

all  his  might, 
And  to  the  neighboring  maple  winged 

his  flight. 
Whom  when  the  traitor  safe  on  tree 

beheld. 
He  cursed  the  gods,  with  shame  and 

sorrow  filled ; 
Shame  for  his  folly,  sorrow  out  of 

time. 
For  plotting  an  unprofitable  crime ; 
Yet  mastering  both,  the  artificer  of 

lies 
Renews  the  assault,  and  his  last  bat- 
tery tries. 
Though  I,   said  he,  did  ne'er  in 

thought  offend, 
How  justly  may  my  lord  suspect  his 

friend  ? 
The  appearance  is  against  me,  I  con- 
fess, 
Who  seemingly  have  put  you  in  dis- 
tress : 


OAY. 


725 


This,  since  you  take  it  ill,  I  must  re- 
pent, 

Though  Heaven  can  witness,  with  no 
bad  intent  [cheer 

I  practised  it,  to  make  you  taste  your 

With  double  pleasure,  first  prepared 
by  fear. 

Descend!  so  help  me  Jove!  as  you 

shall  find 
That  Reynard  comes  of  no  dissem- 
bling kind. 
Nay,  quoth  the  cock;  but  1  beshrew 
us  both. 
If  I  believe  a  saint  upon  his  oath: 
An  honest  man  may  take  a  knave's 

advice, 
But  idiots  only  may  be  cozened  twice : 
Once  warned  is  well  bewared.    Not 
flattering  lies 


Shall  soothe  me  more  to  sing  with 
winking  eyes. 

And  open  mouth,  for  fear  of  catch' 
ing  flies. 

Who  blindfold  walks  upon  a  river's 
brim. 

When  he  should  see,  has  he  deserved 
to  swim  ? 

Better,  Sir  Cock,  let  all  contentions 
cease. 

Come  down,  said  Reynard,  let  us  treat 
of  peace. 

A  peace  with  all  my  soul,  said  Chan- 
ticleer; 

But,  with  your  favor,  I  will  treat  it 
here : 

And  lest  the  truce  with  treason  should 
be  mix'd, 

'Tis  my  concern  to  have  the  tree  be- 
twixt. 


John  Gay. 


THE   HARE  AND  MANY  FRIENDS. 

Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a 

name. 
Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 
The  child,  whom  many  fathers  share, 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father' s  care. 
'Tis  thus  in  friendships;  who  depend 
On  many,  rarely  find  a  friend. 
A  hare,  who,  in  a  civil  way. 
Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train 
Who  haunt  the  wood,  or  graze  the 

plain ; 
Her  care  was  never  to  offend ; 
And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 
As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn. 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn. 
Behind  she  hears  the  hunter's  cries. 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder 

flies. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for 

breath. 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death ; 
She  doubles,  to  mislead  the  hound. 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  round; 
Till,  fainting  in  the  public  way. 
Half-dead  with  fear,  she  gasping  lay. 


What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew 
When  first  the  horse  appeared  in  view ! 
*'  Let  me,"  says  she,  "  your  back 
ascend. 
And  OM^e  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight : 
To  friendship  every  burden 's  light." 
The  horse  replied,  "Poor  honest 
puss. 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  thee  thus: 
Be  comforted,  relief  is  near. 
For  all  your  friends  are  in  the  rear.'* 
She  next  the  stately  bull  implored ; 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord; 
"  Since  every  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offence,  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. 
To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  un- 
kind; 
But,  see,  the  goat  is  just  behind.'^ 
The  goat  remarked,   "  Her  pulse 
was  high. 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye : 
My  back,"  says  he,   **may  do  you 

harm ; 
The  sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is 
warm.'* 


726 


EALPINE. 


The  sheep  was  feeble,  and   com- 
plained, 

"  His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained; 

Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears ; 

For   hounds   eat   sheep   as  well   as 
hares." 
She  now  the  trotting  calf  addressed ; 

To  save  from  death  a   friend    dis- 
tressed. 
"  Shall  I,"  says  he,  "  of  tender  age, 

In  this  important  care  engage  ? 

Older  and  abler  passed  you  by; 

How  strong  are  those!    how  weak 
am  1! 

Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence. 

Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  of- 
fence. 

Excuse  me,  then ;  you  know  my  heart ; 

But  dearest  friends,  alas!  must  part. 

How  shall  we  all  lament!    Adieu; 

For  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view." 


THE  MOTHER,   THE  NURSE,  AND 
THE  FAIRY. 

"  Give  me  a  son."     The  blessing 

sent, 
Were  ever  parents  more  content  ? 
How  partial  are  their  doting  eyes ! 
No  child  is  half  so  fair  and  wise. 
Waked  to  the  morning's  pleasing 

care, 
The  mother  rose  and  sought  her  heir. 
She  saw  the  nurse  like  one  possest, 
With  wringing  hands  and   sobbing 

breast. 


"  Sure,  some  disaster  has  befell; 

Speak,  nurse,  I  hope  the  boy  is  well." 
"  Dear  madam,  think  not  me  to 
blame ; 

Invisible  the  fairy  came: 

Your   precious    babe  is  hence  con- 
veyed. 

And  in  the  place  a  changeling  laid. 

Where  are  the  father's  mouth  and 
nose? 

The  mother's  eyes,  as  black  as  sloes  ? 

See,  here,  a  shocking  awkward  crea- 
ture. 

That  speaks  a  fool  in  every  feature." 
"  The  woman 's  blind,"  the  mother 
cries, 

"I  see  wit  sparkle  in  his  eyes." 
"  Lord,  madam,  what  a  squinting 
leer! 

No  doubt  the  faii-y  hath  been  here." 
Just  as  she  spoke,  a  prying  sprite 

Pops  through  the  keyhole  swift  as 
light; 

Perched  on  the  cradle's  top  he  stands, 

And  thus  her  folly  reprimands : 
"Whence  sprung  the  vain,   con- 
ceited lie. 

That  we  with  fools  the  world  supply  ? 

What !  give  our  sprightly  race  away 

For  the  dull,  helpless  sons  of  clay ! 

Besides,  by  partial  fondness  shown. 

Like  you,  we  dote  upon  our  own. 

When  yet  was  ever  found  a  mother 

Who'd  give  her  booby  for  another  ? 

And  should  we  change  with  human 
breed. 

Well  might  we  pass  for  fools  indeed." 


Charles  Graham  Halpine  (Miles  O'Reilly). 

QUAKERDOM,—  A  FORMAL    CALL. 


Through   her   forced,    abnormal 

quiet 
Flashed  the  soul  of  frolic  riot, 
A  ad  a  most  malicious  laughter  lighted 
up  her  downcasL  eyes ; 
All  in  vain  I  tried  each  topic. 
Ranged  from  polar  climes  to  tropic. 
Every  commonplace  I  started    met 
with  yes-or-no  replies. 


For  her  mother  —  stiff  and  stately. 

As  if  starched  and  ironed  lately  — 

Sat  erect,  with  rigid  elbows  bedded 

thus  in  curving  palms; 

There    she    sat    on   guard   before 

us, 
And  in  words  precise,  decorous. 
And  most  calm,  reviewed  the  weather, 
and  recited  several  psalms. 


EARTE. 


27 


How  without  abruptly  ending 
This  my  visit,  and  offending 
Wealthy  neighbors,  was  the  problem 

which    employed    my  mental 

care; 
When  the  butler,  bowing  lowly, 
Uttered  clearly,  stiffly,  slowly, 
"  Madam,  please,  the  gardener  wants 

you," — Heaven,    I    thought, 

has  heard  my  prayer. 

"  Pardon  me !"  she  grandly  uttered; 
Bowing  low,  I  gladly  muttered, 
*' Surely,  Madam!''  and,  relieved  I 

turned  to  scan  the  daughter's 

face: 
Ha !  what  pent-up  mirth  outflashes 
From    beneath     those     pencilled 

lashes ! 
How  the  drill  of  Quaker  custom  yields 

to  Nature's  brilliant  grace. 

Brightly  springs  the  prisoned  foun- 
tain [tain 
From  the  side  of  Delphi's  mouu- 


When  the  stone  that  weighed  upon  its 
buoyant  life  is  thrust  aside; 
So  the  long-enforced  stagnation 
Of  the  maiden's  conversation 
Now  imparted  fivefold  brilliance  to 
its  ever-varying  tide. 

Widely  ranging,  quickly  changing, 
Witty,  winning,  from  beginning 
Unto  end  I  listened,  merely  flinging 
in  a  casual  word ; 
Eloquent,  and  yet  how  simple! 
Hand  and  eye,  and  eddying  dimple, 
Tongue  and    lip    together   made   a 
music  seen  as  well  as  heard. 

When  the  noonday  woods  are  ring- 
ing, 
All  the  birds  of  summer  singing, 
Suddenly  there  falls  a  silence,  and  we 
know  a  serpent  nigh: 
So  upon  the  door  a  rattle 
Stopped  our  animated  tattle, 
And  the  stately  mother  found  us  prim 
enough  to  suit  her  eye. 


Bret  Harte. 

DOW'S  FLAT. 

Dow's  Flat,    That's  its  name. 

And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?    The  same  ? 

Well,  1  thought  it  was  true, 
For  thar  isn't  a  man  on  the  river  as  can't  spot  the  place  at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow,  — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass ; 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass,  — 
Just  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye  down  here  in  the  grass. 


You  see  this  yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 
On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 
Why,  ef  he'd  a'  straddled  that  fence-rail  the  demed  thing  'ed  get  up  and 
buck. 


728  HARTE. 


He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  couldn't  pay  rates; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car 
When  he  tunnelled  with  Bates; 
And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem  his  wife  and  five  kids  from  the 
States. 

It  was  rough, —  mighty  rough; 
But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 
For  a  house,  on  the  sly ; 
And  the  old  woman,  —  well,  she  did  washing,  and  took  on  when  no  one 
was  nigh. 

But  this  yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green ; 
And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary  a  drop  to  be  seen. 

Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  boys  wouldn't  stay; 
And  the  chills  got  about, 

And  his  wife  fell  away ; 
But  Dow,  in  his  well,  kept  a  peggin'  in  his  usual  ridikilous  way. 

One  day,  —  it  was  June,  — 

And  a  year  ago,  jest,  — 
This  Dow  kem  at  noon 

To  his  work  like  the  rest, 
With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  derringer  hid  in  his  breast. 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell 
Jest  to  listen  and  think: 
For  the  sun  in  his  eyes  (jest  like  this,  sir  !),  you  see,  kinder  made  the  cuss 
blink. 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay: 
Not  much  for  a  man  to  be  leavin',  but  his  all, —  as  I've  heer'd  the  folks  say. 

And  —  that's  a  peart  hoss 

Thet  you've  got —  ain't  it  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh  ?  Oh!—  Well  then,  Dow  — 
Let's  see,  — well,  that  forty-foot  grave  wasn't  his,  sir,  that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick. 
Then  he  trembled  and  cried ; 
For  you  see  the  dem  cuss  had  struck  —  "Water?"  —  Beg  your  parding, 
young  man,  there  you  lied  I 


HARTE. 


729 


It  was  (jold,  —  in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike; 
And  1  reckon  five  oughts 
Was  the  worth  of  that  strike ; 
And  that  house  with  the  coopilow  's  his'n,  —  which  the  same  isn't  bad  for 
a  Pike. 

Thet's  why  it'sDow's  Flat; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 
That  he  kinder  got  that 
Througli  sheer  contrairiness: 
For  'twas  water  the  denied  cuss  was  seekin',  and  his  luck  made  him  certain 
to  miss. 

Thet's  so.     Thar's  your  way 

To  tlie  left  of  yon  tree; 
But  —  a  —  look  h'yur,  say, 
Won' t  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 
No?    Well,  then  the  next  time  you're  passin';  and  ask  after  Dow,  —  and 
thet's  me. 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM   TRUTH- 
FUL JAMES. 

POPULARLY  KNOWN  AS  THE  "HEATHEN 
CHINEE." 

Which  I  wish  to  remark  — 
And  my  language  is  plain  — 

That  for  ways  that  are  dark 
And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 

The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar: 
Which   the  same  I  would  rise  to 
explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name; 

And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive    and 
childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third. 
And  quite  soft  was  the  skies, 

Which  it  might  be  inferred 
That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise ; 

Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  Wil- 
liam 
And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game. 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 
It  was  euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand. 


But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table. 
With  the  smile  that  was  childlike 
and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve. 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and 
bowers. 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  de- 


But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see,  — 
Till  at   last   he  put  down   a   right 
bower, 
Which  the  same  Nye  had   dealt 
imto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 
And  he  gazed  upon  me; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We    are   ruined   by  Chinese   cheap 
labor,"  — 
And    he    went   for  that  heathen 
Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 
I  did  not  take  a  hand. 


730 


HAY. 


But  the  floor  it  was  strewed, 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand, 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  ISin  had  been 
hiding 
In  the  game  "he  did  not  under- 
stand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 
He  had  twenty-four  jacks,  — 

Which  was  coining  It  strong, 
Yet  I  state  but  the  facts. 


And   we  found  on  his  nails  which 

were  taper,  —  [wax. 

"Wliat  is  frequent  in  tapers,  —  that's 

Which  is  why  I  remark. 
And  my  language  is  plain, 

That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 
And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 

The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar,  — 
Which  the  same  1  am  free  to  main- 
tain. 


John  Hay. 


LITTLE  BREECHES. 

I  don't  go  much  on  religion, 

I  never  ain't  had  no  show; 
But  I've  got  a  middlin'  tight  grip,  sir. 

On  the  handful  of  things  1  know. 
I  don't  pan  out  on  the  prophets 

And  free-will,   and    that    sort    of 
thing,  — 
But  1  b'lieve  in  God  and  the  angels. 

Ever  sence  one  night  last  spring. 

I  come  into  town  with  some  turnips, 

And  my  little  Gabe  came  along,  — 
No  four-year-old  in  the  county 

Could    beat    him    for    pretty  and 
strong. 
Peart  and  chipper  and  sassy, 

Always  ready  to  swear  and  fight,  — 
And  I'd  larnt  him  to  chaw  terbacker 

Jest  to  keep  his  milk-teeth  white. 

The  snow  come  down  like  a  blanket 

As  1  passed  by  Taggart's  store; 
I  went  in  for  a  jug  of  molasses 

And  left  the  team  at  the  door. 
They  scared  at  something  and  start- 
ed,— 

I  heard  one  little  squall, 
And  hell-to-split  over  the  prairie. 

Went  team,  Little  Breeches  and  all. 

Hell-to-spMt  over  the  prairie! 

1  was  almost  froze  with  skeer; 
But  we  rousted  up  some  torches, 

And  sarched  for  'em  far  and  near. 


At  last  we  struck  bosses  and  wagon. 
Snowed  under  a  soft  white  mound, 

Upsot,  dead  beat,  —  but  of  little  Gabe 
No  hide  nor  hair  was  found. 

And  here  all  hope  soured  on  me. 

Of  my  fellow-critter's  aid,  — 
I  jest  flopi:cd  down  on  my  marrow- 
bones. 
Crotch-deep    m    the    snow,     and 
prayed. 
By  this,  tlie  torches  was  played  out, 

And  me  and  Isrul  Parr 
Went  otf  for  some  wood  to  a  sheep- 
fold 
That  he  said  was  somewhar  thar. 

We  found  it  at  last,  and  a  little  shed 
Where  they  shut  up  the  lambs  at 
night. 
We   locked  in  and  seen  them  hud- 
dled thar. 
So  warm  and  sleepy  and  white; 
And  THAR  sot  Little  Breeches  and 
chirped, 
As  peart  as  ever  you  see, 
"  I  want  a  chaw  of  terbacker. 
And  that's  what's  the  matter  of 
me." 

How  did  he  git  thar  ?    Angels. 
He  could   never  have  walked    in 
that  storm ; 
They  jest  scooped  down   and  toted 
him 
I     To  whar  it  was  safe  and  warm. 


HAY. 


731 


And  I  think  that  saving  a  little  child, 
And  bringing  him  to  his  own, 

Is  a  derned  sight  better  business 
Than  loafing  round  the  Throne. 


JIM  BLUDSO,   OF   THE   PRAIRIE 
BELLE. 

Wall,  no!    1   can't    tell    whar  he 
lives. 
Because  he  don't  live,  you  see; 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me, 
Whar  have    you  been  for  the   last 
three  year 
That  you  have'nt  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed   in  his 
checks 
The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle  ? 

He  weren't  no  saint, — them  engi- 
neers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike,  — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-tlie-Hill 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row. 
But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never 
lied,  — 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was   all   the   religion    he 
had, — 
To  treat  his  engine  well; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river 
•  To  mind  the  pilot's  bdl; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took 
fire, — 
A  thousand  times  he  swore, 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 
Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mis- 
sissip. 
And  her  day  come  at  last.  — 


The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 
But    the    Belle   she    wouldn't   be 
passed. 
And  so  she  came  tearln'  along  that 
night  — 
The  oldest  craft  on  the  line  — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  hei  safety- 
valve. 
And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin 
and  pine. 

The  fire  burst  out  as  she  clared  the 
bar, 
And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and 
made 
For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but 
Jim  yelled  out. 
Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 
Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the 
burnin'  boat 
Jim  Bludso' s  voice  was  heard. 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussed- 
ness, 
And  knowed  he  would  keep  his 
word. 
And  sure's  you're  born,  they  all  got 
off 
Afore  the  smokestacks  fell,  — 
And  Bludso' s  ghost  went  up  alone 
In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 

He  weren't  no  saint, —but  at  jedg- 
ment 
I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 
That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with 
him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing,— 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then ; 
And  Christ  ain't  a  going  to  be  too 
hard 
On  a  man  thfi  died  for  men. 


732 


HOLMES. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


A  FAMILIAR  LETTER  TO  SEVERAL 
CORRES  P  ONDENTS. 

2es,  -write,  if  you  want  to,  there's 
nothing  like  trying; 
Who  knows  wliat  a  treasiu*e  your 
casket  may  hold  ? 
I'll  show  you  that  rhyraing's  as  easy 
as  lying 
If  you'll  listen  to  me  while  the  art 
I  unfold. 

Here's  a  book  full  of  words;  one  can 
choose  as  he  fancies, 
As  a  painter  his  tint,  as  a  workman 
his  tool ; 
Just  think!  all  the  poems  and  plays 
and  romances 
Were  drawn  out  of  this,  like  the 
fish  from  a  pool ! 

You  can  wander  at  will  through  its 
syllabled  mazes. 
And  take  all  you  want, — not  a 
copper  they  cost,  — 
What  is  there  to  hinder  your  picking 
out  phrases 
For  an  epic  as  clever  as  "  Paradise 
Lost"? 

Don't  mind  if  the  index  of  sense  is  at 
zero, 
Use    words    that    run    smoothly, 
whatever  they  mean ; 
Leander  and  Lilian  and  Lillibullero 
Are  much  the  same  thing  in  the 
rhyming  machine. 

There  are  words  so  delicious  their 
sweetness  will  smother 
That  boarding-school  flavor  of  which 
we're  afraid,  — 
There  is  "lush"  is  a  good  one,  and 
"  swirl "  is  another,  — 
Put  both  in  one  stanza,  its  fortune 
is  made. 

With  musical  murmurs  and  rhythmi- 
cal closes 
You  can  cheat  us  of  smiles  when 
you've  nothing  to  tell; 


You  hand  us  a  nosegay  of  milliner's 
roses, 
And  we  cry  with  delight,  "  O,  how 
sweet  they  do  smell!" 

Perhaps  you  will  answer  all  needful 
conditions 
For  winning  the  lam-els  to  which 
you  aspire, 
By  docking  the  tails  of  the  two  prep- 
ositions 
r  the  style  o'  the  bards   you  so 
gi'eatly  admire. 

As  for  subjects  of  verse,  they  are 
only  too  plenty 
For  ringing  the  changes  on  metri- 
cal chimes: 
A  maiden,  a  moonbeam,  a  lover  of 
twenty, 
Have  filled  that  great  basket  with 
bushels  of  rhymes. 

Let  me  show  you  a  picture  —  'tis  far 
from  irrelevant  — 
By  a  famous  old  hand  in  the  arts 
of  design ; 
'Tis  only  a  photographed  sketch  of 
an  elephant,  — 
The  name  of  the  draughtsman  was 
Rembrandt  of  Rhine. 

How  easy !  no  troublesome  colors  to 
lay  on. 
It  can't  have  fatigued  him, — no, 
not  in  the  least,  — 
A  dash  here  and  there  with  a  hap- 
hazard crayon. 
And    there    stands    the  wrinkled- 
skinned,  baggy-limbed  beast. 

Just  so  with  your  verse,  —  'tis  as  easy 
as  sketching,  — 
You  can  reel  off  a  song  without 
knitting  your  brow. 
As  lightly  as  Rembrandt  a  drawing 
or  etching; 
It  is  nothing  at  all,  if  you  only 
know  how. 


HOLMES, 


783 


Well;   imagine  you've  printed  your 
volume  of  verses; 
Your  forehead   is   wreathed  with 
the  garland  of  fame, 
Your  poem  the  eloquent  school-boy 
rehearses. 
Her  album  the  school-girl  presents 
for  your  name ; 

Each  morning  the  post  brings  you 
autograph  letters ; 
You'll    answer  them  promptly, — 
an  hour  isn't  much 
For  the  honor  of  sharing  a  page  with 
your  betters, 
With  magistrates,  members  of  Con- 
gress, and  such. 

Of  course  you're  delighted  to  serve 
the  committees 
That  come  with  requests  from  the 
country  all  round; 
You  would  grace  the  occasion  with 
poems  and  ditties 
When  they've  got  a  new  school- 
house,  or  poorhouse  or  pound. 

With  a  hymn  for  the  saints  and  a 
song  for  the  sinners, 
You  go  and  are  welcome  wherever 
you  please ; 
You're  a  privileged  guest  at  all  man- 
ner of  dinners. 
You've   a    seat   on  the  platform 
among  the  grandees. 

At   length  your  mere  presence   be- 
comes a  sensation. 
Your  cup  of  enjoyment  is  filled  to 
its  brim 
With  the  pleasure  Horatian  of  digit- 
monstration, 
As    the    whisper    runs    round    of 
"  That's  he! "  or  "  That's  him!" 

But  remember,  O  dealer  in  phrases 
sonorous, 
So  daintily  chosen,    so  tunefully 
matched, 
Though  you  soar  with  the  wings  of 
the  cherubim  o'er  us, 
The  ovum  was  human  from  which 
you  were  hatched. 


No  will  of  your  own  with  its  puny 
compulsion 
Can  summon  the  spirit  that  quick- 
ens the  lyre ; 
It  comes,   if  at  all,  like  the  sibyl's 
convulsion 
And  touches  the  brain  with  a  finger 
of  fire. 

So  perhaps,  after  all,  it's  as  well  to 
be  quiet. 
If  you've    nothing   you  think    is 
worth  saying  in  prose. 
As  to  furnish  a  meal  of  their  canni« 
bal  diet 
To  the  critics,  by  publishing,  as 
you  propose. 

But  it's  all  of  no  use,  and  I'm  sorry 
I've  written,  — 
I  shall  see  your  thin  volume  some 
day  on  my  shelf ; 
For  the  rhyming  tarantula  surely  has 
bitten. 
And  music  must  cure  you,  so  pipe 
it  yourself. 


THE  SEPTEMBER  GALE. 

I'm  not  a  chicken:  I  have  seen 

Full  many  a  chill  September, 
And  though  I  was  a  youngster  then, 

That  gale  I  well  remember; 
The     day     before     my  kite-string 
snapped. 

And  I,  my  kite  pursuing, 
The  wind  whisked  off  my  palm-leaf 
hat,  — 

For  me  two  storms  were  brewing  I 

It  came  as  quarrels  sometimes  do. 

When  married  folks  get  clashing; 
There  was  a  heavy  sigh  or  two. 

Before  the  fire  was  flashing,  — 
A  little  stir  among  the  clouds. 

Before  they  rent  asunder,  — 
A  little  rocking  of  the  trees, 

And  then  came  on  the  thunder. 

Lord!  how  the  ponds  and  rivers 
boiled ! 

They  seemed  like  bursting  craters ! 
And  oaks  lay  scattered  on  the  ground 

As  If  they  were  p'taters; 


'34 


HOOD. 


And  all  above  was  in  a  howl, 
And  all  below  a  clatter,  — 

The  earth  was  like  a  frying-pan, 
Or  some  such  hissing  matter. 

It  chanced  to  be  our  washing-day. 

And  all  our  things  were  drying; 
The  storm  came  roaring  through  the 
lines, 

And  set  them  all  a  flying; 
I  saw  the  shirts  and  petticoats 

Go  riding  otf  like  witches : 
I  lost,  ah !  bitterly  I  wept,  — 

I  lost  my  Sunday  breeches ! 

I  saw  them  straddling  through  the  air, 

Alas !  too  late  to  win  them ; 
I  saw  them  chase  the  clouds,  as  if 

The  devil  had  been  in  tliem ; 
They  were  my  darlings  and  my  pride, 

My  boyhood's  only  riciies,  — 
*' Farewell,  farewell,"  I  faintly  cried : 

"My  breeches!  O  my  breeches!" 


That  night  I  saw  them  in  my  dreams, 
How  changed  from  what  I  kne\V 
them ! 
The  dews  had  steeped  their  faded 
threads. 
The  winds  had  whistled  through 
them ! 
I  saw  the  wide  and  ghastly  rents 
Where    demon    claws    had    torn 
them; 
A  hole  was  in  their  amplest  part, 
As  if  an  imp  had  worn  them. 

I  have  had  many  happy  years, 

And  tailors  kind  and  clever, 
But   those   young    pantaloons  have 
gone 

Forever  and  forever! 
And  not  till  fate  has  cut  the  last 

Of  all  my  earthly  stitches, 
This   aching   heart   shall    cease    to 
mourn 

My  loved,  my  long-lost  breeches  I 


Thomas  Hood. 


TO  MT  INFANT  SON. 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf ! 
(But  stop;  first  let  me  kiss  away  that 

tear, ) 
Thou  tiny  image  of  myself ! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his 

ear,) 
Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite. 
With  spirits,  feather  light, 
Untouclied  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled 

by  sin. 
(My  dear,  the  child  is  swallowing  a 

pin!) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings 

the  air, — 
(The  door!   the  door!   he'll  tumble 

down  the  stair!) 
Thou  darling  of  thy  sire! 
(Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore 

afire!) 
Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy ! 


In  love's  dear  chain  so  bright  a  link. 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents;  —  (Drat 
the  boy ! 
There  goes  my  ink. ) 

Thou  cherub,  but  of  earth; 

Fit  playfellow  for  fairies,  by  moon- 
light pale,' 
In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 

(That  dog  will  bite  him,  if  he  pulls 
his  tail!) 
Thou   human   humming-bee,    ex- 
tracting honey 

From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that 
blows. 
Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever 
sunny, — 

( Another  tumble  I  That' s  his  precious 
nose!) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope! 

(He'll   break   the   mirror  with  that 
skipping-rope!) 

With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from 
Nature's  mint, 

(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 


HOOD, 


786 


Thou  young  domestic  dove ! 

;  He'll  have  that  ring  off  with  another 

shove, ) 
Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest! 
(Are  these  torn  clothes  his  l>est  ?) 
Little  epitome  of  man! 
(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his 

plan.) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of 

dawning  life, 
(He's  got  a  knife!) 
Thou  enviable  being! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky 

foreseeing, 
Play  on,  play  on, 
My  elfin  John! 
Toss    the    light    ball,    bestride    the 

stick,  — 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make 

him  sick!) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle- 
down. 
Prompting  the  feat  grotesque,  and 

antic  brisk, 
With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk! 
(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at 

your  gown!) 
Thou  pretty  opening  rose! 
(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe 

your  nose!) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the 

south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  ray 

mouth!)  [dove; 

Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the 
(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unless  he's  sent  above. ) 


JOHX  DA  Y. 

John  Day  he  was  the  biggest  man 
Of  all  the  coachman  kind, 

With  back  too  broad  to  be  conceived 
By  any  narrow  mind. 

The  very  horses  knew  his  weight 

When  he  was  in  the  rear. 
And  wished  his  box  a  Christmas-box 

To  come  but  once  a  year. 

Alas !  against  the  shafts  of  love 

What  armor  can  avail  ? 
Soon  (jupid  sent  an  arrow  through 

His  scai  iet  coat  of  mail. 


The  bar-maid  of  the  Crown  he  loved, 
From  whom  he  never  ranged ; 

For  though  he  changed  his-  horses 
there. 
His  love  he  never  changed. 

He  thought  her  fairest  of  all  fares, 

So  fondly  love  prefers; 
And  often,  among  twelve  outsides, 

Deemed  no  outside  like  hers. 

One  day,  as  she  was  sitting  dowu 

Beside  the  porter-pump, 
He  came,  and  knelt  with  all  his  fat, 

And  made  an  offer  plump. 

Said  she,  "  My  taste  will  never  learn 

To  like  so  huge  a  man. 
So  1  must  beg  you  will  come  here 

As  little  as  you  can." 

But  still  he  stoutly  urged  his  suit. 
With  vows,  and  sighs,  and  tears, 

It  could    not  pierce  her  heart,  al- 
though 
He  drove  the  "  Dart"  for  years. 

In  vain  he  wooed,  in  vain  he  sued; 

The  maid  was  cold  and  proud. 
And  sent  him  off  to  Coventry, 

While  on  his  way  to  Stroud. 

He  fretted  all  the  way  to  Stroud, 
And  thence  all  back  to  town ; 

The  course  of  love  was  never  smooth, 
So  his  went  up  and  down. 

At  last  her  coldness  made  him  pine 
To  merely  bones  and  skin. 

But  still  he  loved  like  one  resolved 
To  love  through  thick  and  thin. 

*'  O  Mary!  view  my  wasted  back, 
And  see  my  dwindled  calf; 

Though  I  have  never  had  a  wife, 
I've  lost  my  better  half." 

Alas!  in  vain  he  still  assailed, 
Her  heart  withstood  the  dint ; 

Though  he  had  carried  sixteen  stone, 
He  could  not  move  a  flint. 

Worn  out,  at  last  he  made  a  vow 
To  break  his  being's  link; 

For  he  was  so  reduced  in  size 
At  nothing  he  could  shrink. 


736 


HOOD. 


Now  some  will  talk  in  water- s  praise, 
And  waste  a  deal  of  breath, 

But  John,  though  he  drank  nothing 
else, 
He  drank  himself  to  death. 

The  cruel  maid  that  caused  his  love. 

Found  out  the  fatal  close, 
For  looking  in  the  butt,  she  saw 

The  butt-end  of  his  woes. 

Some  say  his  spirit  haunts  the  Crown, 

But  that  is  only  talk  — 
For  after  riding  all  his  life, 

His  ghost  objects  to  walk. 


NUMBER  ONE. 

It's  very  hard !  —  and  so  it  is, 

To  live  in  such  a  row,  — 

And  witness  this,  that  every  Miss 

But  me  has  got  a  beau. 

For  Love  goes  calling  up  and  down. 

But  here  he  seems  to  shun ; 

I  am  sure  he  has  been  asked  enough 

To  call  at  Number  One! 

I'm  sick  of  all  the  double  knocks 

That  come  to  Number  Four ! 

At  Number  Three  I  often  see 

A  lover  at  the  door ; 

And  one  in  blue,  at  Number  Two, 

Calls  daily,  like  a  dun, — 

It's  very  hard  they  come  so  near. 

And  not  to  Number  One ! 

Miss  Bell,  I  hear,  has  got  a  dear 

Exactly  to  her  mind, — 

By  sitting  at  the  window-pane 

AVithout  a  bit  of  blind; 

But  I  go  in  the  balcony. 

Which  she  has  never  done ; 

Yet  arts  that  thrive  at  Number  Five 

Don't  take  at  Number  One. 

'Tis  hard,  with  plenty  in  the  street. 

And  plenty  passing  by, — 

There's  nice  young  men  at  Number 

Ten, 
But  only  rather  shy ; 
And  Mrs.  Smith  across  the  way 
Has  got  a  grown-up  son, 
But,  la!  he  hardly  seems  to  know 
There  is  a  Number  One ! 


There's  Mr.  Wick  at  Number  Nine, 

But  he's  intent  on  pelf; 

And  though  he's  pious,  will  not  love 

His  neighbor  as  himself. 

At  Number  Seven  there  was  a  sale  — • 

The  goods  had  quite  a  run ! 

And  here  I've  got  my  single  lot 

On  hand  at  Number  One ! 

My  mother  often  sits  at  work, 

And  talks  of  props  and  stays, 

And  what  a  comfort  I  shall  be 

In  her  declining  days: 

The  very  maids  about  the  house 

Have  set  me  down  a  nun, 

The  sweethearts  all  belong  to  them 

That  call  at  Number  One ! 

Once  only,  when  the  flue  took  fire, 
One  Friday  afternoon. 
Young  Mr.  Long  came  kindly  in 
And  told  me  not  to  sw^oon : 
Why  can't  he  come  again,  without 
The  Phtenix  and  the  Sun  ? 
We  cannot  always  have  a  flue 
On  fire  at  Number  One ! 

I  am  not  old ;  I  am  not  plain ; 
Nor  awkward  in  my  gait  — 
I  am  not  crooked  like  the  bride 
That  went  from  Number  Eight : 
I'm  sure  white  satin  made  her  look 
As  brown  as  any  bun  — 
But  even  beauty  has  no  chance, 
I  think,  at  Number  One ! 

At  Number  Six  they  say  Miss  Rose 

Has  slain  a  score  of  hearts. 

And  Cupid,  for  her  sake,  has  been 

Quite  prodigal  of  darts. 

The   Imp   they  show  with  bended 

bow, 
I  wish  he  had  a  gun ! 
But  if  he  had  he'd  never  deign 
To  shoot  with  Number  One ! 

It's  very  hard,  and  so  it  is, 

To  live  in  such  a  row! 

And  here's  a  ballad-singer  come 

To  aggravate  my  woe : 

Oh,  take  away  your  foolish  song. 

And  tones  enough  to  stun  — 

There  is  "  Nae  luck  about  the  house,'' 

I  know,  at  Number  One ! 


HOOD. 


787 


VM  NOT  A  SINGLE  MAN. 

Well,  I  confess,  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow 
Wouhl  make  me  find  all  women-kind 

Such  unkind  women  now! 
Tiiey  need  not,  sure,  as  distant  be 

As  Java  or  Japan, — 
Yet  every  Miss  reminds  me  this  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

Once  they  made  Choice  of  my  bass 
voice 

To  share  in  each  duet ; 
So  well  I  danced,  1  somehow  chanced 

To  stand  in  every  set: 
They  now  declare  I  cannot  sing, 

And  dance  on  Bruin's  plan; 
Me    draw !  —  me    paint !  —  me    any- 
thing !  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

Once  I  was  asked  advice,  and  tasked 

What  works  to  buy  or  not. 
And  *'  would  I  read  that  passage  out 

I  so  admired  in  Scott  ?  " 
They  then  could  bear  to  hear  one  read ; 

But  if  I  now  began, 
How  they  would  snub,  "My  pretty 
page,"— 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

One  used  to  stitch  a  collar  then, 

Another  hemmed  a  frill ; 
I  had  more  purses  netted  then 

Than  I  could  hope  to  fill. 
I  once  could  get  a  button  on. 

But  now  I  never  can  — 
My  buttons  then  were  Bachelor's  — 

Tm  not  a  single  man! 

Oh,  how  they  hated  politics 

Thrust  on  me  by  papa: 
But  now  my  chat  —  they  all  leave  that 

To  entertain  mamma: 
Mamma,  who  praises  her  own  self, 

Instead  of  Jane  or  Ann, 
And  lays  "  her  girls  "  upon  the  shelf — 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

Ah  me,  how  strange  it  is,  the  change, 

In  parlor  and  in  hall, 
They  treat  me  so,  if  I  but  go 

To  make  a  morning  call. 


If  they  had  hair  in  papers  once, 
Bolt  up  the  stairs  they  ran ; 

They  now  sit  still  in  dishabille  — 
I'm  not  a  single  man ! 

Miss  Mary  Bond  was  once  so  fond 

Of  Romans  and  of  Greeks; 
She  daily  sought  my  cabinet 

To  study  my  antiques. 
Well,  now  she  doesn't  care  a  dump 

For  ancient  pot  or  pan, 
Her  taste  at  once  is  modernized  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

My  spouse  is  fond  of  homely  life, 

And  all  that  sort  of  thing; 
I  go  to  balls  without  my  wife, 

And  never  wear  a  ring: 
And  yet  each  Miss  to  whom  I  come, 

As  strange  as  Genghis  Khan, 
Knows  by  some  sign  1  can't  divine  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

Go  where  I  will,  I  but  intrude, 

I'm  left  in  crowded  rooms. 
Like  Zimmerman  on  Solitude, 

Or  Hervey  at  his  Tombs. 
From  head  to  heel  they  make  me  feel 

Of  quite  another  clan; 
Compelled  to  own,  though  left  alone, 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

Miss  Towne  the  toast,  though  she  can 
boast 

A  nose  of  Roman  line, 
Will  turn  up  even  that  in  scorn 

At  compliments  of  mine: 
She  should  have  seen  tliat  1  have  been 

Her  sex's  partisan. 
And  really  married  all  I  could  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man ! 

'Tis  hard  to  see  how  others  fare, 

Whilst  I  rejected  stand, — 
Will  no  one  take  my  arm  because 

They  cannot  have  my  hand  ? 
Miss  Parry,  that  for  some  would  go 

A  trip  to  Hindostan, 
With  me  don't  care  to  mount  a  stair — 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

Some  change,  of  course,  should  be  in 
force, 
But,  surely,  not  so  much — 


738 


HOOD. 


There    may   be    hands    I    may   not 
squeeze, 

But  must  I  never  touch  ? 
Must  I  forbear  to  hand  a  chair 

And  not  pick  up  a  fan  ? 
But  I  have  been  myself  picked  up  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man ! 

Others  may  hint  a  lady's  tint 

Is  purest  red  and  white, — 
May  say  her  eyes  are  like  the  skies, 

So  very  blue  and  bright  — 
I  must  not  say  that  she  has  eyes^ 

Or  if  I  so  began, 
X  have  my  fears  about  my  ears  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 

I  must  confess  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow, 
Would  make  me  find  all  women-kind 

Such  unkind  women  now; 
I    might    be    hashed    to    death,    or 
smashed, 

By  Mr.  Pickford's  van, 
Without,  I  fear,  a  single  tear  — 

I'm  not  a  single  man! 


THU  DOUBLE  KNOCK. 

Kat-tat  it  went  upon   the  lion's 

chin ; 
"That  hat,  I  know  it!"  cried  the 

joyful  girl; 
*'  Summer's  it  is,  I  know  him  by  his 

knock; 
Comers  like  him  are  welcome  as  the 

day ! 
Lizzie !  go  down  and  open  the  street 

door; 
Busy  I  am  to  any  one  but  him.    . 
Know  him  you  must  —  he  has  been 

often  here; 
Show  him  upstairs,  and  tell  him  I'm 

alone." 

Quickly  the  maid  went  tripping  down 

the  stair; 
Thickly  the  heart  of   Kose  Matilda 

beat, 
"Sure  he  has  brought  me  tickets  for 

the  play  — 
Drury  —  or  Covent  Garden  —  darling 

man! 


Kemble   will    play  —  or  Kean,   who 

makes  the  soul 
Tremble  in  Richard  or  the  frenzied 

Moor  — 
Farren,  the  stay  and  prop  of  many  a 

farce 
Barren  beside  —  or   Liston,    Laugh- 
ter's child  — 
Kelly,  the  natural,  to  witness  whom 
Jelly  is  nothing  to  the  public's  jam  — 
Cooper,   the    sensible  —  and  Walter 

Knowles 
Super,  in  William  Tell,  now  rightly 

told. 
Better  —  perchance,  from  Andrews, 

brings  a  box, 
Letter  of  boxes  for  the  Italian  stage — 
Brocard!  Donzelli!  Taglioni!  Paul! 
No  card  —  thank  Heaven  —  engages 

me  to-night! 
Feathers,  of  course  —  no  turban  and 

no  toque  — 
Weather's  against  it,  but  I'll  go  in 

curls. 
Dearly  I  dote  on  white  —  my  satin 

dress, 
Merely  one  night  — it  won't  be  much 

the  worse  — 
Cupid  —  the  new  ballet  I  long  to 

see  — 
Stupid !  why  don't  she  go  and  ope  the 

door?  " 

Glistened  her  eye  as  the  impatient 
girl 

Listened,  low  bending  o'er  the  top- 
most stair. 

Vainly,  alas !  she  listens  and  she 
bends, 

Plainly  she  hears  this  question  and 
reply: 

"Axes  your  pardon,  sir,  but  what 
d'ye  want?" 

"Taxes,"  says  he,  "and  shall  not 
call  again!" 


THE  CIGAR. 

Some  sigh  for  this  and  that, 
My  wishes  don't  go  far. 

The  world  may  wag  at  will, 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 


HOOD. 


Some  fret  themselves  to  death, 
With  Whig  and  Tory  jar; 

I  don't  care  whicli  is  in, 
JSo  1  have  my  cigar. 

Sir  John  requests  my  vote, 
And  so  does  Mr.  Marr; 

1  don't  care  how  it  goes. 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Some  want  a  German  row, 
Some  wish  a  Russian  war, 

I  care  not  —  I'm  at  peace  — 
So  1  have  my  cigar. 

I  never  see  the  Post, 
I  seldom  read  the  StaVy 

The  Globe  1  scarcely  heed, 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 

They  tell  me  that  bank  stock 
Is  sunk  much  under  par, 

It's  all  the  same  to  me, 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Honors  have  come  to  men, 
My  juniors  at  the  bar, 

No  matter  —  I  can  wait, 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Ambition  frets  me  not; 

A  cab,  or  glory's  car 
Are  just  the  same  to  me, 

So  I  have  my  cigar. 

I  worship  no  vain  gods, 

But  serve  the  household  Lar; 
I'm  sure  to  be  at  home, 

So  1  have  my  cigar. 

I  do  not  seek  for  fame, 
A  general  with  a  scar; 

A  private  let  me  be, 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 

To  have  my  choice  among 
The  toys  of  life's  bazaar, 

The  deuce  may  take  them  all," 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 

Some  minds  are  often  tost 
By  tempests,like  a  Tar; 

I  always  seem  in  port, 
So  1  have  my  cigar. 


The  ardent  flame  of  love. 
My  bosom  cannot  char; 

I  smoke,  but  do  not  burn. 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 

They  tell  me  Nancy  Low 
Has  married  Mr.  K 

The  jilt!  but  I  can  live, 
So  I  have  my  cigar. 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GHAT, 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 
And  used  to  war's  alarms: 

But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs. 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms  I 

Now,  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot, 

For  here  1  leave  my  second  leg, 
And  the  Forty-second  FootT" 

The  army  surgeons  made  him  limbs: 
Said  he,  "  They're  only  pegs; 

But  there 's    as    wooden    members 
quite, 
As  represent  my  legs! " 

Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid, 
Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray ; 

So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours 
Wlieu  he'd  devoured  his  pay! 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 
She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 
Began  to  take  them  off! 

"  O  Nelly  Gray!  O  Nelly  Gray! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat, 

Should  be  more  uniform! " 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once. 
For  he  was  blithe  and  brave; 

But  I  will  never  have  a  man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave ! 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes. 

Your  love  I  did  allow, 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footing  nowl " 


740 


HOOD, 


"  O  Nelly  Gray!  O  Nelly  Gray! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 

In  Badajos's  breaches ! " 

**  Why,  then,"  said  she,  "  you've  lost 
the  feet 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms!" 

"Oh,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray; 

I  know  why  you  refuse:  [man 

Though   I've  no  feet  —  some  other 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes ! 

"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face; 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death ;  —  alas ! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell !  " 

Now,  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got  — 
And  life  was  such  a  burthen  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line ! 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 
And  then  removed  his  pegs. 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off, —  of  course, 
He  soon  was  off  his  legs ! 

And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town, — 
For  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down! 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse. 
To  find  out  why  he  died  — 

And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross- 
roads, 
With  a  stake  in  his  inside! 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN: 

Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young 
man, 

A  carpenter  by  trade, 
And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 

That  was  a  lady's  maid. 


But  as  they  fetched  a  walk  one  day, 
They  met  a  press-gang  crew; 

And  Sally  she  did  faint  away. 
Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked 
words. 

Enough  to  shock  a  saint. 
That  though  she  did  seem  in  a  fit, 

'Twas  nothing  but  a  feint. 

"  Come,  girl,"  said  he,  '^  hold  up  your 
head. 

He'll  be  as  good  as  me; 
For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat, 

A  boatswain  he  will  be." 

So  when  they'd  made  their  gamt  o* 
her. 

And  taken  off  her  elf, 
She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 

A  coming  to  herself. 

"  And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone?" 
She  cried,  and  wept  outright: 

"  Then  I  will  to  the  water  side, 
And  see  him  out  of  sight." 

A  waterman  came  up  to  her: 
"  Now,  young  woman,"  said  he, 

"  If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 
Eye-water  in  the  sea." 

*'  Alas!  they've  taken  my  beau  Ben 
To  sail  with  old  Benbow; " 

And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh, 
As  if  she'd  said  Gee  woe! 

Says  he,  "  They've  only  taken  him 
To  the  Tender  ship,  you  see; " 

"  The    Tender    ship,"    cried    Sally 
Brown, 
What  a  hard-ship  thai  must  be ! 

"Oh  !    would    I   were   a   mermaid 
now, 

For  then  I'd  follow  him; 
But,  oh!  —  I'm  not  a  fish-woman^ 

And  so  I  cannot  swim. 

"  Alas!  I  was  not  born  beneath 
The  Virgin  and  the  Scales, 

So  I  must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 
And  walk  about  in  Wales." 


HOOD. 


741 


Now   Ben    had    sailed  to    many   a 
place 
That's  underneath  the  world; 
But    in    two   years   the    ship   came 
home, 
And  all  her  sails  were  furled. 

But  when  he  called  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  she  went  on, 
He  found  she'd  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John. 

"O  Sally  Brown,  O  Sally  Brown, 
How  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 

I've  met  with  many  a  breeze  before. 
But  never  such  a  blow." 


Then  reading  on  his  'bacco-box. 

He  heaved  a  bitter  sigh, 
And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing,  "All  'a 
Well," 
But  could  not,  though  he  tried; 
His    head  was    turned,  and    so   he 
chewed 
His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

Iberth, 
His  death,  which  happened  in  his 

At  forty-odd  befell: 
They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 
The  sexton  tolled  the  bell. 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-KEEPING. 

How  hard,  when  those  who  do  not  wish  to  lend,  thus  lose,  their  books, 
Are  snared  by  anglers,—  folks  that  fish  with  literary  Hooks, — 
W^ho  call  and  take  some  favorite  tome,  but  never  read  it  through;  — 
They  thus  complete  their  set  at  home,  by  making  one  at  you. 

I,  of  my  "  Spenser  "  quite  bereft,  last  winter  sore  was  shaken; 
Of  "  Lamb  "  I've  but  a  quarter  left,  nor  could  1  save  my  "  Bacon;  '* 
And  then  I  saw  my  "  Crabbe,"  at  last,  like  Hamlet,  backward  go; 
And,  as  the  tide  was  ebbing  fast,  of  course  1  lost  my  "  Rowe." 

My  "  Mallet "  served  to  knock  me  down,  which  makes  me  thus  a  talker; 
And  once,  when  I  was  out  of  town,  my  "  Johnson  "  proved  a  "  Walker." 
While  studying,  o'er  the  fire,  one  day,  my  "  Hobbes,"  amidst  the  smoke, 
They  bore  my  "  Colman  "  clean  away,  and  carried  off  my  "  Coke." 

They  picked  my  "  Locke,"  to  me  far  more  than  Bramah's  patent  worth, 

And  now  my  losses  I  deplore,  without  a  "  Home  "  on  earth. 

If  once  a  book  you  let  them  lift,  another  they  conceal. 

For  though  1  caught  them  stealing  "  Swift,"  as  swiftly  went  my  "  Steele." 

"  Hope"  is  not  now  upon  my  shelf,  where  late  he  stood  elated; 
But  what  is  strange  my  "Pope"  himself  is  excommunicated. 
My  little  "  Suckling  "  in  the  grave  is  sunk  to  swell  the  ravage; 
And  what  vv^as  Crusoe's  fate  to  save,  'twas  mine  to  lose, —  a  "  Savage.'* 

Even  "  Glover's  "  works  I  cannot  put  my  frozen  hands  upon ; 
Though  ever  since  I  lost  my  "  Foote,"  my  "  Bunyan  "  has  been  gone. 
My  "  Hoyle  "  with  "  Cotton  "  went  oppressed;  my  "  Taylor,"  too,  must  fail; 
To  save  my  "  Goldsmith"  from  arrest,  in  vain  I  offered  "  Bayle." 

I  "  Prior"  sought,  but  could  not  see  the  "  Hood"  so  late  in  front; 
And  when  I  turned  to  hunt  for  "  Lee,"  oh!  where  was  my  "  Leigh  Hunt"  ? 
I  tried  to  laugh,  old  care  to  tickle,  yet  could  not  "  Tickle  "  touch  ? 
And  then,  alack!  I  missed  my  "Mickle," — and  surely  Mickle  's  much. 


r42' 


EOPKINSON. 


'Tis  quite  enough  my  griefs  to  feed,  my  sorrows  to  excuse, 

To  think  1  cannot  read  my  "  Reid,''  nor  even  use  my  "  Hughes;" 

My  classics  would  not  quiet  lie,  a  thing  so  fondly  hoped; 

Like  Dr.  Primrose,  1  may  ccy,  my  "  Livy  "  has  eloped. 

My  life  is  ebbing  fast  away;  1  suffer  from  these  shocks. 
And  though  1  fixed  a  lock  on  "  Gray,"  there's  gray  upon  my  locks; 
I'm  far  from  "  Young,"  am  growing  pale,  I  see  my  "  Butler"  fly; 
And  when  they  ask  about  my  ail,  'tis  "  Burton,"  I  reply. 

They  still  have  made  me  slight  returns,  and  thus  my  griefs  divide; 
For,  oh!  they  cured  me  of  my  ''  Burns,"  and  eased  my  "  Akenside." 
But  all  I  think  1  shall  not  say,  nor  let  my  anger  burn, 
For,  as  they  never  found  me  "  Gay,"  they  have  not  left  me  "  Sterne.'* 


Francis  Hopkinson. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE  KEGS. 

Gallants,  attend  and  hear  a  friend 
Trill  forth  harmonious  ditty; 

Strange  things  I'll  tell  which  late  be- 
fell 
In  Philadelphia  city. 

'T  was  early  day,  as  poets  say, 
Just  when  the  sun  was  rising, 

A  soldier  stood  on  a  log  of  wood, 
And  saw  a  thing  surprising. 

As  in  amaze  he  stood  to  gaze. 
The  truth  can't  be  denied,  sir. 

He  spied  a  score  of  kegs  or  more 
Come  floating  down  the  tide,  sir. 

A  sailor  too,  in  jerkin  blue, 
This  strange  appearance  viewing. 

First  rubbed  his  eyes,  in  great  sur- 
prise, 
Then  said  some  mischief 's  brewing. 

These  kegs,  I'm  told,  the  rebels  hold 
Packed  up  like  pickled  herring; 

And  they're  come  down  t'  attack  the 
town. 
In  this  new  way  of  ferrying. 

The  soldier  flew,  the  sailor  too, 
And  scared  almost  to  death,  sir. 

Wore  out  their  shoes,  to  spread  the 
news. 
And  ran  till  out  of  breath,  sir. 


Now  up  and  down  throughout  the 

town 
Most  frantic  scenes  were  acted ; 
And  some  ran  here,  and  others  there, 
Like  men  almost  distracted. 

Some  fire  cried,  which  some  denied, 
But  said  the  earth  had  quaked ; 

And  girls  and  boys,   with   hideous 
noise. 
Ran  through  the  streets  half  naked. 

From  sleep  Sir  William  starts  upright. 
Awaked  by  such  a  clatter; 

He  rubs  both  eyes,  and  boldly  cries. 
For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter  ? 

At  his  bedside  he  then  espied 
Sir  Erskine  at  command,  sir; 

Upon  one  foot  he  had  one  boot, 
And  th'  other  in  his  hand,  sir. 

*'  Arise,  arise! "  Sir  Erskine  cries; 

"  The  rebels  —  more 's  the  pity  — 
Without  a  boat  are  all  afloat. 

And  ranged  before  the  eity. 

"  The  motley  crew,  in  vessels  new, 
With  Satan  for  their  guide,  sir, 

Packed  up  in  bags,  or  wooden  kegs. 
Come  driving  down  the  tide,  sir. 

' '  Therefore  prepare  for  bloody  war : 
These  kegs  must  all  be  routed, 

Or  surely  we  despised  shall  be. 
And  British  courage  doubted." 


LANDOR. 


74» 


The  royal  band  now  ready  stand, 
All  ranged  in  dread  array,  sir. 

With  stomach  stout,  to  see  it  out, 
And  make  a  bloody  day,  sir. 

The   cannons   roar,    from   shore   to 
shore, 

The  small  arms  make  a  rattle; 
Since  wars  began  I'm  sure  no  man 

E'er  saw  so  strange  a  battle. 

The  rebel  dales,  the  rebel  vales. 
With  rebel  trees  surrounded ; 

The  distant   woods,    the    hills    and 
floods. 
With  rebel  echoes  sounded. 

The  fish  below,  swam  to  and  fro. 
Attacked  from  every  quarter; 

Why,  sure,  thought  they,  the  devil 's 
to  pay 
'Mongst  folks  above  the  water. 


The  kegs,  'tis  said,  though  strongly 
made 

Of  rebel  staves  and  hoops,  sir, 
Could  not  oppose  their  powerful  foes. 

The  conq'ring  British  troops,  sir. 

From  mom  to  night  these  men  of 
might 

Displayed  amazing  courage; 
And  when  the  sun  was  fairly  down 

Retired  to  sup  their  porridge. 

An  hundred  men,  with  each  a  pen, 
Or  more,  upon  my  word,  sir, 

It  is  most  true  would  be  too  few 
Their  valor  to  record,  sir. 

Such  feats  did  they  perform  that  day 
■  Against  tliese  wicked  kegs,  sir, 
That  years  to  come,  if  they  get  home, 
They'll  make  their  boast  and  brags, 
sir. 


Walter  Savage  Landor. 


THE  ONE   WHITE  HAIR. 

The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies 

And  love  to  hear  them  told ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a  one,  — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when 

he  grew  old. 

I  never  was  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom's  song, 

But  pretty  lies  loved  I, 
As  much  as  any  king, 
When  youth  was  on  the  wing. 
And  (must  it  then  be  told  ?)  when 

youth  had  quite  gone  by. 

Alas !  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot 

When  one  pert  lady  said 
"O  Landor  I  I  am  quite 
Bewildered  with  affright! 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now)  a  white  hair  on 
your  head  I" 


Another  more  benign 
Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine, 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  it  was  found. 
That  one,  and  twirled  it  round ; 
Fair  as  she  was  she  never  was  sofairl 


UNDER    THE  LINDENS. 

Under  the  lindens  lately  sat 
A  couple,  and  no  more,  in  chat; 
I  wondered  what  they  would  be  at 
Under  the  lindens 

I  saw  four  eyes  and  four  lips  meet ; 
I  heard  the  words,   "How   sweet! 

how  sweet!" 
Had  then  the  fairies  given  a  treat 

Under  the  lindens  ? 

I  pondered  long,  and  could  not  tell 
What  dainty  pleased  them  both  bo 

well: 
Bees !  oees  I  was  it  your  hydromel 

Under  the  lindens  f 


744 


LELAND. 


Charles  Godfrey  Leland. 


[From  Breitmann  about  Town.] 
CITY  EXPERIENCES. 

Dey  vented  to  de  Opera  Haus, 

Uiid  dere  dey  voimd  em  blayin'. 
Of  Offenbach  (der  open  brook), 

His  show  spiel  Belle  Helene. 
*'Dere's  Offenbach, — Sebastian  Bach ; 

Mit  Kaulbach,  —  dat  makes  dree: 
I  alvays  likes  soosh  brooks  ash  dese," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

Dey  vented  to  de  Bibliothek, 

Vhieh  Mishder  Astor  bilt: 
Some  pooks  vere  only  en  broschiire, 

Und  some  vere  pound  und  gilt. 
"  Dat  makes  de  gold  —  dat  makes  de 
Sinn, 

Mit  pooks,  ash  men,  ve  see, 
De  pest  tressed  vellers  gilt  de  most:  " 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

Dey  vent  oonto  a  bictnre  sale, 

Of  frames  wort'  many  a  cent, 
De  broberty  of  a  shendleman, 

Who  oonto  Europe  vent. 
"Don't    gry  —  he'll    soon    pe    pack 
again 

Mit  anoder  gallerie: 
He    sells   dem   oud    dwelf  dimes   a 
year," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

Dey  vented  to  dis  berson's  house, 

To  see  his  furnidure. 
Sold  oud  at  aucdion  rite  afay, 

Berembdory  und  sure. 
"  He  geeps  six  houses  all  at  vonce, 

Each  veek  a  sale  dere  pe ; 
Gotts!    vat  a  dime  his  vife  moost 
hafe!"  — 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

Dey  vent  to  hear  a  breecher  of 

De  last  sensadion  shtyle, 
'Twas  'nough  to  make  der  tyfel  weep 

To  see  his  "  awful  shmile." 


"  Vot  bities  dat  der  Fechter  ne'er 

Yas  in  Theologie. 
Dey'd    make    him    pisliop    in    dis 
shoorsh," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

Dey  vent  polid'gal  meedins  next, 

Dey  hear  dem  rant  and  rail, 
Der  bresident  vas  a  forger, 

Shoost  bardoned  oud  of  jail. 
He  does  it  oud  of  cratitood 

To  dem  who  set  him  vree : 
"Id's  Harmonic  of  Inderesds," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

Dey  vent  to  a  clairfoyand  vitch, 

A  plack-eyed  handsome  maid. 
She  wahrsagt  all  der  vortmies  —  denn 

"  Fife  dollars,  gents!  "  she  said. 
"  Dese  vitches  are  nod  of  dis  eart', 

Unci  yed  are  on  id,  I  see 
Der  Shakesbeare  knew  de  preed  right 
veil," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

Dey  vented  to  a  restaurand, 

Der  vaiter  coot  a  dasli ; 
He  garfed  a  shicken  in  a  vink, 

Und  serfed  id  at  a  vlash. 
"  Dat  shap  knows  veil  shoost  how  to 
coot, 

Und  roon  mit  poulterie. 
He    vas    copitain    oonder    Turchin 
vonce," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 

Dey  vented  to  de  Voman's  Righds, 

Vere  laties  all  agrees 
De  gals  should  pe  de  voters, 

Und  deir  beaux  all  de  votees. 
"  For  efery  man  dat  nefer  vorks, 

Von  frau  should  vranchised  pe: 
Dat  ish  de  vay  I  solf  dis  ding," 

Said  Breitemann,  said  he. 


LEVER. 


745 


SCHNHZERUS  PHILOSOPEDE. 

He  UK  ScHNiTZERL  make  a  philoso- 
pede, 

Von  of  de  pullyest  kind ; 
It  vent  mitout  a  vlieel  in  front, 

And  hadn't  none  peliind. 
Von  vheel  vas  in  de  nilttel,  dough, 

And  it  vent  as  sure  as  ecks, 
For  he  shtraddled  on  de  axle-dree 

Mit  de  vheel  petween  his  leeks. 

Und  ven  he  vant  to  shtart  id  off, 

He  paddlet  mit  his  feet, 
Und  soon  he  cot  to  go  so  vast 

Dat  avery  dings  he  peat. 
He  run  her  out  on  Broader  Shtreed, 

He  shkeeted  like  der  vind; 
Hei !  how  he  bassed  de  vancy  crabs, 

And  lef  dem  all  pehind ! 

De  vellers  mit  de  trottin  nags 

Pooled  oop  to  see  him  bass ; 
De  Deutschers  all  erstaunished  saidt: 

''Potztnusend  !'   Was  ist  das  ?  " 
Boot    vaster    shtill    der    Schnitzerl 
flewed 

On  —  mit  a  gashtly  smile ; 
He  tidn't  tooch  de  tirt,  py  shings! 

Not  vonce  in  half  a  mile. 


Oh,  vot  ish  all  dis  eartly  pliss  ? 

Oh,  vot  ish  man's  soocksess  ? 
Oh,  vot  ish  various  kinds  of  dings  ? 

Und  vot  ish  hobbiness  ? 
Ve  find  a  pank-node  in  de  shtreedt, 

Next  dings  der  pank  is  preak; 
Ve  foils,  und  knocks  our  outsides  in, 

Ven  ve  a  ten-shtrike  make. 

So  vas  it  mit  der  Schnitzerlein 

On  his  philosopede ; 
His  feet  both  shlipped  outsideward 
shoost 

Vlien  at  his  extra  shpeed. 
He  felled  oopon  der  vheel,  of  course; 

De  vheel  like  blitzen  flew: 
Und   Schnitzerl    he  vas   schnitz   in 
vact, 

For  id  shlished  him  grod  in  two. 

Und  as  for  his  philosopede, 

Id  cot  so  shkared,  men  say, 
It  pounded  onward  till  it  vent 

Ganz  teufehvards  afay. 
But  vhere  ish  now  de  Schnitzerl' s 
soul  ? 

Vhere  dos  his  shbirit  pide  ? 
In  Himmel  troo  de  entless  plue, 

Id  dakes  a  medeor  ride. 


Charles  Lever. 


WIDOW  MALONE. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 
Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 
Alone ! 
O,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts; 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 
Ohone! 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score, 
Or  more. 
And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 
In  store; 
From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  Crown 


All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 

'Twas  known 
That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 
Ohone ! 
Let  them  ogle  and  sigh. 
They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye. 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 

Till  one  Misther  O'Brien,  from  Clare 
(How  quare! 

It's  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there). 


r46 


LOVER. 


Put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  — 
Gave  ten  kisses  at  laste,  — 
"O,"  says  he,    "you're    my  Molly 
Malone ! 

My  own ! 
O,"   says    he,    "  you're    my   Molly 
Malone! " 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so 
shy, 

My  eye ! 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh,  — 
For  why  ?" 
But,  "Lucius,"  says  she, 
"  Since  you've  now  made  so  free, 


You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone." 

There's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song, 

Not  wrong; 
And  one  comfort,  it's  not  very  long, 
But  strong,  — 
If  for  widows  you  die. 
Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh ; 
For  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress 
Malone, 

Ohone! 
For  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress 
Malone. 


'-\'' 


Samuel  Lo^^er.^  ( 


\  THE  BIRTH  OF  ST.  PATRICK. 

/>fv^     ,       On  the  eighth  day  of  March  it  was, 
y      yv  --^rk  some  people  say. 

That  Saint  Patrick  at  midnight  he 

first  saw  the  day; 
While  others  declare  'twas  the  ninth 

he  was  born. 
And  'twas  all  a  mistake  between  mid- 
night and  morn ; 
For  mistakes  ivill  occur  in  a  hurry 
and  shock, 

^y  (>'     And  some  blamed  the  babby  —  and 
y>*\  some  blamed  the  clock  — 

v^  ft    'Till  with  all  their  cross  questions 
.jy-^  sure  no  one  could  know 

'^^'N.  If  the  child  was  too  fast  —  or  the 
JCk     clock  was  too  slow. 

Now  the  first  faction  fight  in  ow 

Ireland,  they  say, 
Was  all  on  account  of  Saint  Patrick's 

birthday, 
/\\.  Some  fought  for  the  eighth  —  for  the 
%y  ninlh  more  would  die. 

And  who  wouldn't  see  right,  sure 

they  blacken'd  his  eye. 
At  last,  both  the  factions  so  positive 

grew. 
That  each  kept  a  birth-day,  so  Pat 

then  had  two. 


i 


¥ 


'Till  Father  Mulcahy,  who  slu)wed 

them  their  sins,   ^^lfVjt>Ol 
Said,  "  No  one  could  have  two  bitth- 
but  a  twins.'" 


Says  he,  "  Boys,  don't  be  fighting  for 
eight  or  for  nine, 

Don't  be  always  dividing  —  but  some- 
times combine; 

Combine  eight  with  nine,  and  seven- 
teen is  the  mark, 

So    let    that    be    his    birtli-day'lf— 


tf 


Amen,"  says  the  clerk.  ^ 
he  wasn't  a    twins,    sure   our 
hist'ry  will  show  — 
Tliat,  at  least,  he's  worth  any  two 
1^  saints  that  we  know! " 

rThen  they  all  got  blind  drunk — which 

completed  their  bliss. 
And  we  keep  up  the  practice  from 
that  day  to  this. 


RORY  O'MORE. 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kath- 
leen Bawn, 

He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  and  she  soft 
as  the  dawn; 


LOVER. 


747 


He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kath- 
leen to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do 
.  that  was  to  tease. 

**  Now,  Roiy,  be  easy,"  sweet  Kath- 
'  leen  would  cry, 

Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her 

ey3, 
*'  With  your  tricks,  I  don't  know,  in 

throth,  what  I'm  about, 
Faith,  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on 

my  cloak  inside  out." 
**0h!  jewel,"  saysRory,  ''that same 

is  tlie  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart    for  this 

many  a  day. 
And  it's  piazed  that  I  am,  and  why 

not,  to  be  sure  ? 
For  it's  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold 

Rory  O'More. 

"Indeed,    then,"     says     Kathleen, 

"  don't  think  of  the  like. 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soother- 
ing Mike; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves, 

I'll  be  bound:" 
"Faith!"    says   Rory,    "I'd  rather 

love  you  than  the  ground." 
**  Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry,  if  you  don't 

let  me  go : 
Sure  I  dream  ev'ry  night  that  I'm 

hating  you  so!" 
"Oh!"  says  Rory,  "that  same  I'm 

delighted  to  hear, 
For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthrai- 

ries,  my  dear. 
Oh!  jewel,  keep  dhraming  that  same 

till  you  die. 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty 

night  the  black  lie! 
And  'tis  piazed  that  I  am,  and  why 

not,  to  be  sure  ? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says 

bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  An-ah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've 

teazed  me  enough. 
Sure  I've  thrash' d  for  your  sake  Dinny 

Grimes  and  Jim  Duff; 
And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your 

health,  quite  a  baste, 
So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to 

the  praste.^^ 


Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm 

round  her  neck. 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle 

or  speck, 
And  he  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were 

beaming  with  light, 
And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips  —  don't 

you  think  he  was  right  ? 
"Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir  —  you'll 

hug  me  no  more. 
That's  eight  times  to-day  you  have 

kissed  me  before." 
"  Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he, 

"  to  make  sure, 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers," 

says  Rory  O'More. 


WIDOW  MACHREE, 

Widow  machree,  it's  no  wonder  you 
frown, 

Och  hone !  widow  machree ; 
Faith,  it  niins  your  looks,  that  same 
dirty  black  gown, 

Och  hone !  widoV  machree. 
How  altered  your  air. 
With  that  close  cap  you  wear— 
'Tis  destroying  your  hair 

Which  would  be  flowing  free: 
Be  no  longer  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl, 

Och  hone!  widow  machree! 

Widow  machree,  now  the  summer  is 
come, 

Och  hone !  widow  machree ; 
When   everything  smiles,   should  a 
beauty  look  glum  ? 

Och  hone !  widow  machree. 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs. 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares  — 
Why  even  the  bears 

Now  in  couples  agree; 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  wish, 

Och  hone!  widow  machree. 

Widow  machree,  and  when  winter 

comes  in, 
Och  hone !  widow  machree. 
To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a 

sin, 


748 


LOVER, 


Och  hone !  widow  macliree. 
Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 
And  the  kettle  sings  songs 

Full  of  family  glee; 
While  alone  with  your  cup, 
Like  a  hermit  you  sup, 

Och  hone !  widow  machree. 

And  how  do  you  know,   with  the 
comforts  I've  towld, 
Och  hone!  widow  machree, 
But  you're  keeping  some  poor  fellow 
out  in  the  eowld, 
Och  lion^ !  widow  machree. 
W  ith  such  sms  on  your  head. 
Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled, 
Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed, 

Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite. 
That  would  wake  you  each  night. 
Crying,   "Och  hone!  widow  ma- 
chree." 

Then  take  my  advice,  darling  widow 
macliree, 

Och  hone !  widow  machree. 
And   with  my  advice,  faith   I  wish 
you'd  take  me, 

Och  hone !  widow  machree. 
You'd  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  stir  up  the  fire ; 
And  sure  Hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  me. 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart. 
When  you'd  me  near  your  heart, 

Och  hone !  widow  machree. 


FATHER-LAND    AND   MOTHER- 
TONG  UE. 

Our  Father-land!  and  would' st  thou 
know 
Why  we  should  call  it  Father-land  *? 
It  is,  that  Adam  here  below, 
W^as  made  of   earth  by  Nature's 
hand ; 
And  he,  our  father,  made  of  earth. 

Hath  peopled  earth  on  ev'ry  hand, 
And  we,  in  memory  of  his  birth, 
Do    call    our   country,    "  Father- 
land." 


At  first,  in  Eden's  bowers  they  say. 
No  sound  of    speech  had  Adam 
caught, 
But  whistled  like  a  bird  all  day  — 
And  may  be,   'twas  for  want  of 
thought : 
But  Nature,  with  resistless  laws, 

Made  Adam  soon  surpass  the  birds, 
She  gave  him  lovely  Eve  —  because 
If  he'd  a  wife  —  they  must  have 
words. 

And  so,  the  Native  Land  I  hold, 

By  male  descent  is  proudly  mine; 
The  Language,  as  the  tale  hath  told, 

AVas  given  in  the  female  line. 
And  thus,  we  see,  on  either  hand, 

We    name    our   blessings  whence 
they've  sprung. 
We  call  our  country  Father  land., 

We    call    our    language     Mother 
tongue. 


FATHER  MOLL  or. 

Paddy    McCabe    was    dying    one 

day. 
And  Father  Molloy  he  came  to  con- 
fess him; 
Paddy  prayed  hard  he  would  make 

no  delay 
But  forgive  him  his  sins  and  make 

haste  for  to  bless  him. 
"  First    tell    me    your    sins,"    says 

Father  Molloy, 
"  For  I'm  thinking  you've  not  been 

a  very  good  boy." 
"  Oh,"  says  Paddy,  "  so  late  in  the 

evenin'  I  fear 
'T would  throuble  you  such  a  long 

story  to  hear, 
For  you've  ten  long  miles  o'er  the 

mountain  to  go. 
While  the  road  Fve  to  travel's  much 

longer,  you  know: 
So  give  us  your  blessin'  and  get  in  the 

saddle, 
To  tell  all  my  sins  my  poor  brain  it 

would  addle; 
And   the  docthor    gave    ordhers  to 

keep  me  so  quiet  — 
'Twould  disturb  me  to  tell  all  my 

sins,  if  I'd  thry  it, 


LOWELL. 


749 


And  your  reverence  has  towld  us,  un- 
less we  tell  all, 

'Tis  worse  than  not  makin'  confes- 
sion at  all : 

So  ril  say,  in  a  word,  I'm  no  very 
good  boy, 

And,  therefore,  your  blessin',  sweet 
Father  Molloy." 

"  Well,  I'll  read  from  a  book,"  says 
Father  Molloy, 
"  The  manifold  sins  that  human- 
ity's heir  to; 

And  when  you  hear  those  that  your 
conscience  annoy, 
You'll  just  squeeze  my  hand,  as 
acknowledging  thereto.'' 

Then  the  Father  began  the  dark  roll 
of  iniquity. 

And  Paddy,  thereat,  felt  his  con- 
science grow  rickety, 

And  he  gave  such  a  squeeze  that  the 
priest  gave  a  roar  — 

*'  Oh,  murdher! "  says  Paddy,  "  don't 
read  any  more. 

For,  if  you  keep  readin',  by  all  that 
is  tlirue, 

Yom*  reverence's  fist  will  be  soon 
black  and  blue ; 

Besides,  to  be  throubled  my  con- 
science begins. 

That  your  reverence  should  have  any 
hand  in  my  sins: 

So  you'd  betther  suppose  I  committed 
tliem  all, 

For  whether  tliey're  great  ones,  or 
whether  they're  small, 

Or  if  they're  a  dozen,  or  if  they're 
fourscore, 

'Tis  your  reverence  knows  how  to  ab- 
solve them,  asthore: 


So  I'll  say,  in  a  word,  I'm  no  very 

good  boy. 
And,  therefore,  your  blessin',  sweet 

Father  Molloy." 

"Well,"   says    Father   Molloy,   "if 

your  sins  I  forgive. 
So  you  uuist  forgive  all  your  ene- 
mies truly; 
And  promise   me  also  that,  if  you 

should  live, 
You'll   leave  oif   your  tricks,  and 

begin  to  live  newly," 
"I   forgive     ev'rybody,"   says    Pat, 

with  a  groan, 
"Except   that  big  vagabone,  Micky 

Malone ; 
And  him  I  will  murdher  if  ever  I 

can  —  " 
"  Tut,  tut!"  says  the  priest,  "you're 

a  very  bad  man ; 
For   without  your  forgiveness,   and 

also  repentance. 
You'll  ne'er  go  to  Heaven,  and  that 

is  my  sentence." 
"  Poo!"  says  Paddy  McCabe,  "  that's 

a  veiy  hard  case, 
With  your  Reverence  and  Heaven  I'm 

content  to  make  pace ; 
But  with  Heaven  and  your  Keverence 

I  wondher  —  Och  hone, 
You  would  think  of  comparin'  that 

blackguard  Malone  — 
But  since  I'm  hard  press' d  and  that 

I  must  forgive, 
I  forgive  —  if  I  die  —  but  as  sure  as  I 

live 
That  ugly  blackguard  I  will  surely 

desthroy !  — 
So,   now,  for   your   blessin',   sweet 

Father  Molloy  I" 


James  Russell  Lowell. 

iFrom  the  Riglow  Papers.] 
THE   C0URTI2P, 


GrOD  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an' 
still 

Fur'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 


Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
And    peeked   in  thru'   the   win- 
der. 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  bender. 


T60 


LOWELL. 


A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side, 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in  — 

There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort 
died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  pud  din'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

And  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  among  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen' s-arm  that  granther 
Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

And  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dog-rose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  i. 
Clean  grit,  an'  human  natur' ; 

None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 
Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv 
'em. 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells : 
All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 
All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 

The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice    hed    such  a 
swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring. 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'    she'd    blush    scarlit,    right    in 
prayer. 

When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it.  I 


Thet   night,  I   tell  ye,  she  looked 
some  ! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 


She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed 
A-raspin'  on  the  scraper, — 


It  tu, 


All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 
Like  sparks  in  burnt  up,  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  1'  itered  on  the  mat. 
Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 

His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 
But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder. 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Pariu'  away  like  mm-der. 

"  You  want  to  see  my  pa,  I  s'pose  ?" 
"  Wal  ...   no  ...    I  come  da- 
signin'  " — 
"  To  see  my  ma  ?    She's  sprinklin' 
clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so. 
Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other. 

An'  on  v/hich  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  *'  I'd  better  call  agin;" 
Says  she,  "  Think  likely,  mister;" 

Thet  last  word  pricked  him  Ilka  a 
pin. 
An'  .  .  .  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes. 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary. 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer 
mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary, 


LYTTON. 


751 


The  blood  clost  roiin'  her  heart  felt 
glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin', 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

And  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 

An'  all  1  know  is  they  was  cried 
In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 

WITHOUT  AND    WITHIN. 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Looks  through  the  side-light  of  the 
door; 

1  hear  him  with  his  brethren  s^ear, 
As  I  could  do,  — but  only  more. 

Flattening  his  nose  against  the  pane, 
He  envies  me  my  brilliant  lot, 

Breathes  on  his  aching  fist  in  vain, ' 
And  dooms  me  to  a  place  more  hot. 

He  sees  me  into  supper  go, 
A  silken  wonder  by  my  side, 

Bare  arms,  bare  shoulders,  and  a  row 
Of  flounces,  for  the  door  too  wide. 


He  thinks  how  happy  is  my  arm 
'Neath  its  white-gloved  and  jew- 
elled load : 

And  wishes  me  some  dreadful  harm. 
Hearing  the  merry  corks  explode. 

Meanwhile  I  inly  curse  the  bore 
Of    hunting    still    the    same    old 
coon. 

And  envy  him,  outside  the  door, 
In  golden  quiets  of  the  moon. 

The  winter  wind  is  not  so  cold 
As  the  bright  smile  he  sees  me  win, 

Nor  the  host's  oldest  wine  so  old 
As  oiu*  poor  gabble  sour  and  thin. 

1  envy  him  the  ungyved  prance 
By    which    his    freezing    feet    he 
warms, 

And  drag  my  lady's-chains  and  dance, 
The  galley-slave  of  dreary  forms. 

O,  could  he  have  my  share  of  din. 
And  I  his  quiet!  —  past  a  doubt 

'T  would    still    be  one  man  bored 
within. 
And  just  another  bored  without. 


Robert  Bulwer  Lytton  (Owen  Meredith). 


{From  LucileJ] 
THE  STOMACH  OF  MAN. 

O  HOUR  of  all  hours,  the  most  bless' d 

upon  earth, 
Blessed  hour  of  our  dinners! 

The  land  of  his  birth ; 
The  face  of  his  first  love;  the  bills 

that  he  owes; 
The  twaddle  of  friends  and  the  venom 

of  foes; 
The  sermon  he  heard  when  to  church 

he  last  went; 
The  money  he  borrow'd,  the  money 

he  spent;  — 
All  of  these  things  a  man,  I  believe, 

may  forget. 
And  not  be  the  worse  for  forgetting; 

but  yet 


Never,    never,   oh,    never  !    earth's 

luckiest  sinner 
Hath  unpunished  forgotten  the  hour 

of  his  dinner! 
Indigestion,  that  conscience  of  every 

bad  stomach. 
Shall  relentlessly  gnaw  and  pursue 

him  with  some  ache 
Or  some  pain ;  and  trouble,  remorse- 
less, his  best  ease, 
As  the  Furies  once  troubled  the  sleep 

of  Orestes. 
We  may  live  without  poetry,  music, 

and  art; 
We  may  live  without  conscience,  and 

live  without  heart; 
We  may  live  without  friends;  we  may 

live  without  books; 
But  civilized  man  cannot  live  without 

cooks. 


752 


LYTTON. 


He  may  live  without  books, — what  is 

knowledge  but  grieving  ? 
He  may  live  without  hope, — what  is 

hope  but  deceiving  ? 
He  may  live  without  love,  what  is 

passion  but  pining  ? 
But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live 

without  dininsr  ? 


[From  Lucile.] 
FEW  IN  iMAXY. 

The  age  is  gone  o'er 
"When  a  man  may  in  all  things  be  all. 

We  have  more 
Painters,  poets,  musicians,  and  art- 
ists, no  doubt. 
Than    the    great  Cinquecento    gave 

birth  to;  but  out 
Of  a  million  of  mere  dilettanti,  when, 

when 
Will  a  new  Leonardo  arise  on  our  ken? 
He  is  gone  with  the  age  which  begat 

him.     Our  own 
Is  too  vast,  and  too  complex,  for  one 

man  alone 
To  embody  its  purpose,  and  hold  it 

shut  close 
In  the  palm  of   his  hand.     There 

were  giants  in  those 
Irreclaimable  days ;  but  in  these  days 

of  ours. 
In  dividing  the  work  we  distribute 

the  powers. 
Yet  a  dwarf  on  a  dead  giant's  shoul- 
ders sees  more 
Than  the  'live  giant's  eyesight  availed 

to  explore; 
And  in  life's    lengthen' d    alphabet 

what  used  to  be 
To  our  sires  X  Y  Z  is  to  us  ABC. 
A  Vanini  is  roasted    alive   for  his 

pains. 
But  a  Bacon  comes  after  and  picks 

up  his  brains. 
A  Bruno  is  angrily  seized    by  the 

throttle 
And    hunted    about   by  thy    ghost, 

Aristotle, 
Till  a  More  or  Lavater  step  into  his 

place : 
Then  the  world  turns  and  makes  an 

admiring  grimace. 


Once  the  men  were  so  great  and  so 
few,  they  appear. 

Through  a  distant  Olympian  atmos- 
phere, 

Like  vast  Caryatids  upholding  the 
age. 

Now  the  men  are  so  many  and  small, 
disengage 

One  man  from  the  million  to  mark 
him,  next  moment 

The  crowd  sweeps  him  hurriedly  out 
of  your  comment; 

And  since  we  seek  vainly  (to  praise 
in  our  songs) 

'Mid  our  fellows  the  size  which  to 
heroes  belongs. 

We  take  the  whole  age  for  a  hero,  in 
want 

Of  a  better;  and  still,  in  its  favor, 
descant 

On  the  strength  and  the  beauty  which, 
failing  to  find 

In  any  one  man,  we  ascribe  to  man- 
kind. 


[From  Lucile.] 
THE  ERRATIC  GENIUS. 

With  irresolute  finger  he  knock' d  at 

each  one 
Of  the  doorways  of  life,  and  abided 

in  none. 
His  course,  by  each  star  that  would 

cross  it,  was  set. 
And  whatever  he  did  he  w^as  sure  to 

regret, 
That  target,  discuss' d  by  the  travel- 
lers of  old. 
Which  to  one  appear' d  argent,  to  one 

appear' d  gold. 
To  him,  ever  lingering  on  Doubt's 

dizzy  margent, 
Appeared  in  one  moment  both  golden 

and  argent. 
The  man  who  seeks  one  thing  in  life, 

and  but  one. 
May  hope  to  achieve  it  before  life  be 

done; 
But  he  who  seeks  all  things,  wherever 

he  goes. 
Only  reaps  from  the  hopes  which 

around  him  he  sows 


LYTTON. 


758 


A  harvest  of  barren  regrets.    And 

the  worm 
That  crawls  on  in  the  dust  to  the 

definite  term 
Of   its  creeping  existence,  and  sees 

nothing  more 
Than   the    path    it    pursues  till  its 

creeping  be  o'er, 
In  its  limited  vision,  is  happier  far 
Than  the  Half-Sage,  whose  course, 

fix'd  no  friendly  star 
Is  by  each  star  distracted  in  turn,  and 

who  knows 
Each  will  still  be  as  distant  wherever 

he  go^s. 


{From  Lucile.l 
A   CHARACTER. 

The  banker,  well  known 

As  wearing  the  longest  philacteried 
gown 

Of  all  the  rich  Pharisees  England  can 
boast  of; 

A  shrewd  Purivan  Scot,  whose  sharp 
wits  made  the  most  of 

This  world  and  the  next;  having 
largely  invested 

Not  only  where  treasure  is  never  mo- 
lested 

By  thieves,  moth,  or  rust;  but  on  this 
earthly  ball 

Where  interest  was  high,  and  security 
small, 

Of  mankind  there  was  never  a  theory 
yet 

Not  by  some  individual  instance  up- 
set: 

And  so  to  that  sorrowful  verse  of  the 
Psalm 

Wliich  declares  that  the  wicked  ex- 
pand like  the  palm 

In  a  world  where  the  righteous  are 
stunted  and  pent, 

A  cheering  exception  did  Ridley  pre- 
sent. 

Like  the  worthy  of  Uz,  Heaven  pros- 
pered his  piety. 

The  leader  of  every  religious  society. 

Christian  knowledge  he  labored 
through  life  to  promote 

With  personal  profit,  and  knew  how 
to  quote 


Both  the  Stocks  and  the  Scripture, 

with  equal  advantage 
To  himself  -and  admiring  friends,  in 

this  Cant-Age. 


iFrom  Lucile.^ 
FAME. 

The  poets  pour  wine;  and,  when  'tis 
new,  all  decry  it; 

But,  once  let  it  be  old,  every  trifler 
must  try  it. 

And  Polonius,  who  praises  no  wine 
that's  not  Massic, 

Complains  of  my  verse,  that  my  verse 
is  not  classic. 

And  Miss  Tilburina,  who  sings,  and 
not  badly. 

My  earlier  verses,  sighs  "  Common- 
place sadly!" 

As  for  you,  O  Polonius,  you  vex  me 

but  slightly; 
But  you,  Tilburina,  your  eyes  beam 

so  brightly 
In  despite  of  their  languisliing  looks, 

on  my  word, 
That  to  see  you   look  cross  I  can 

scarcely  afford. 
Yes!  the  silliest  woman  that  smiles 

on  a  bard 
Better  far  than  Longinus  himself  can 

reward 
The  appeal  to  her  feelings  of  which 

she  approves ; 
And  the  critics  I  most  care  to  please 

are  the  Loves. 

Alas,  friend!  what  boots  it,  a  stone 

at  his  head 
And  a  brass  on  his  breast,  — when  a 

man  is  once  dead  ? 
Ay !  were  fame  the  sole  guerdon,  poor 

guerdon  were  then 
Theirs  who,  stripping  life  bare,  stand 

forth  models  for  men. 
The  reformer's  ?  —  a  creed  by  poster- 
ity learnt 
A  century  after  its  author  is  burnt! 
The  poet's  ?  —  a  laurel  that  hides  the 

bald  brow 
It  hath  blighted!    The  painters?  — 

ask  Raphael  now 


r54 


MACKAr. 


Which  Madonna's  authentic!  The 
statesman's  —  a  name 

For  parties  to  blacken,  or  boys  to  de- 
claim ! 

The  soldier's?  —  three  lines  on  the 
cold  Abbey  pavement ! 

Were  this  all  the  life  of  the  wise  and 
the  brave  meant, 

All  it  ends  in,  thrice  better,  Neaera, 
it  were 

Unregarded  to  sport  with  thine  odor- 
ous hair,  |  shade 

Untroubled  to  lie  at  thy  feet  in  the 

And  be  loved,  while  the  roses  yet 
bloom  overhead. 

Than  to  sit  by  the  lone  hearth,  and 
think  the  long  thought, 

A  severe,  sad,  blind  schoolmaster,  en- 
vied for  naught 

Save  the  name  of  John  Milton!  For 
all  men,  indeed, 

Who  in  some  choice  edition  may 
graciously  read,  [note. 

With    fair    illustration,   and  erudite 

The  song  which  the  poet  in  bitter- 
ness wrote, 

Beat  the  poet,  and  notably  beat  him, 
in  this  — 

The  joy  of  the  genius  is  theirs,  whilst 
they  miss 

The  grief  of  the  man :  Tasso's  song  — 
not  his  madness  I 


Dante's  dreams  —  not  his  waking  ta 

exile  and  sadness! 
Milton's    music  —  but    not    Milton's 

blindness!  .  .  . 

Yet  rise. 
My  Milton,  and  answer,  with  those 

noble  eyes 
Which    the    glory    of    heaven   hatli 

blinded  to  earth! 
Say  —  the  life,  in  the  living  it,  savors 

of  worth; 
That  the  deed,  in  the  doing  it,  reaches 

its  aim: 
That  the  fact  has  a  value  apart  from 

the  fame : 
That  a  deeper  delight,  in  the  mere 

labor,  pays 
Scorn  of  lesser  delights,  and  laborious 

days : 
And  Shakespeare,  though  all  Shake- 
speare's writings  were  lost. 
And  his  genius,  though  never  a  trace 

of  it  crossed 
Posterity's  path,  not  the  less  would 

have  dwelt 
In  the  isle  with  Miranda,  with  Hamlet 

have  felt 
All  that  Hamlet  hath  uttered,  and 

haply  where,  pure 
On  its  death-bed,  wronged  Love  lay, 

have  moaned  with  the  Moor! 


Charles  Mackay. 


TO  A  FRIEND  AFRAID  OF  CRITICS. 

At  RAID  of  critics!  an  unworthy 
fear: 

Great  minds  must  learn  their  great- 
ness and  be  bold. 

Walk  on  thy  way ;  bring  forth  thine 
own  true  thought ; 

Love  thy  high  calling  only  for  itself. 

And  find  in  working,  recompense  for 
work, 

And  Envy's  shaft  shall  whiz  -at  thee 
in  vain.  Ijnst; 

Despise  not  censure ;  —  weigh  if  it  be 

And  if  it  be  —  amend,  whate'er  the 
thougat 


Of  him  who  cast  it.     Take  the  wise 

man's  praise, 
And  love  thyself  the  more  that  thou 

couldst  earn 
Meed  so  exalted;  but  the  blame  of 

fools, 
Let  it  blow  over  like  an  idle  whiff 
Of  poisonous  tobacco  in  the  streets. 
Invasive  of  thy  unoffending  nose:  — 
Their  praise  no  better,  only  more  per- 
fumed. 

The  critics  —  let  me  paint  them  as 
they  are. 
Some  few  I  know,  and  love  them  f roui 
my  soul; 


MACKAY. 


755 


Polished,  acute,  deep  read;  of  inborn 

taste 
Cultured  into  a  virtue;  full  of  pith 
A.nd  kindly  vigor,  having  won  their 

spurs 
In  the  great  rivalry  of  friendly  mind. 
And  generous  to  others,  though  un- 
known. 
Who  would,  having  a  thought,  let  all 

men  know 
The  new  discovery.     But  these  are 

rare ; 
And  if  thou  find  one,  take  him  to 

thy  heart, 
And  think  his  unbought  praise  both 

palm  and  crown, 
A  thing  worth  living  for,  were  nought 

beside. 
Fear  thou  no  critic,  if  thou'rt  true 

thyself;  — 
And  look  for  fame  now  if  the  wise 

approve. 
Or  from  a  wiser  jury  yet  unborn. 
The  poetaster  may  be  harmed  enough, 
But  criticasters  cannot  crush  a  bard. 

If  to  be  famous  be  thy  sole  intent. 
And  greatness  be  a  mark  beyond  thy 

reach, 
Manage  the  critics,  and  thou 'It  win 

the  game; 
Invite  them  to  thy  board,  and  give 

them  feasts. 
And    foster    them   with   unrelaxing 

care; 
And  they  will  praise  thee  in  their 

partial  sheets, 
And  quite  ignore  the  worth  of  better 

men. 
But  if  thou  wilt  not  court  them,  let 

them  go, 
And  scorn  the  praise  that  sells  itself 

for  wine. 
Or  tacks  itself  upon  success  alone. 
Hanging  like  spittle  on  a  rich  man's 

beard. 

One,  if  thou'rt  great,  will  cite  from 

thy  new  book 
The  tamest  passage, —  something  that 

thy  soul 
Revolts  at,  now  the  inspiration's  o'er. 
And  would  give  all  thou  hast  to  blot 

from  print 


And  sink  into  oblivion;  —  and  will 
vaunt 

The  thing  as  beautiful,  transcendem,, 
rare  — 

The  best  thing  thou  hast  done!  An- 
other friend, 

With  finer  sense,  will  praise  thy 
greatest  thought. 

Yet  cavil  at  it;  jjuttingin  his  "/>?<■<«" 

And  *'  ?/e<.s,"  and  little  obvious  hints, 

That  though  'tis  good,  the  critic  could 
have  made 

A  work  superior  in  its  every  part. 

Another,  in  a  pert  and  savage  mood. 
Without  a  reason,  will  condemn  thee 

quite. 
And  strive  to  quench  thee  in  a  para- 
graph. 
Another,  with  dishonest  waggery. 
Will  twist,  misquote,  and  utterly  per- 
vert 
Thy  thoughts  and  words;   and  hug 

himself  meanwhile 
In  the  delusion,  pleasant  to  his  soul. 
That  thou  art  crushed,  and  he  a  gen- 
tleman. 

Another,  with  a  specious  fair  pre- 
tence, 

Immaculately  wise,  will  skim  thy 
book. 

And,  self-sufficient,  from  his  desk 
look  down 

With  undisguised  contempt  on  thee 
and  thine; 

And  sneer  and  snarl  thee,  from  his 
weekly  court, 

From  an  idea,  spawn  of  his  conceit, 

That  the  best  means  to  gain  a  great 
renown 

For  wisdom  is  to  sneer  at  all  the 
world, 

With  strong  denial  that  a  good  ex- 
ists;— 

That  all  is  bad,  imperfect,  feeble, 
stale, 

Except  this  critic,  who  outshines 
mankind. 

Another,  with  a  foolish  zeal,  will 
prate 
Of  thy  great  excellence,  and  on  thy 
head 


T56 


MACKAY. 


Heap  epithet  on  epithet  of  praise 

In  terms  preposterous,  that  thou  wilt 
blush 

To  be  so  smothered  with  such  ful- 
some lies. 

Another,  calmer,  with  laudations 
thin, 

Unsavory  and  weak,  will  make  it 
seem 

That  his  good-nature,  not  thy  merit, 
prompts 

The  baseless  adulation  of  his  pen. 

Another,  with  a  bulldog's  bark,  will 
bay 

Foul  names  against  thee  for  some 
fancied  slight 

Which  thou  ne'er  dream'dst  of,  and 
will  damn  thy  work 

For  spite  against  the  worker;  while 
the  next, 

Who  thinks  thy  faith  or  politics  a 
crime, 

Will  bray  displeasure  from  his  month- 
ly stall, 

And  prove  thee  dunce,  that  disagre'st 
with  him. 

And,  last  of  all,  some  solemn  sage, 

whose  nod 
Trimestral    awes   a   world   of    little 

wits, 
Will  carefully  avoid    to    name  thy 

name, 
Although  thy  words  are  in  the  mouths 

of  men, 
A  nd  thy  ideas  in  their  inmost  hearts. 
Moulding  events,  and  fashioning  thy 

time 
To   nobler   efforts.     Little  matters 

it! 
Whate'er  thou  art,  thy  value  will  ap- 
pear. 
If  thou  art  bad,  no  praise  will  buoy 

thee  up; 
If  thou  art  good,  no  censure  weigh 

thee  down, 
Nor  silence  nor  neglect  prevent  thy 

fame. 
So  fear  not  thou  the  critics!    Speak 

thy  thought; 
And,  if  thou'rt  worthy,  in  the  peo- 
ple's love 
Thy  name  shall  live,  while  lasts  thy 

mother  tongue ! 


AT  A   CLUB-DINNER. 
THE  OLD   FOGIES. 

We  merry  three 

Old  fogies  be; 
The  crow's-foot  crawls,  the  wrinkle 
comes. 

Our  heads  grow  bare 

Of  the  bonnie  brown  hair. 
Our  teeth  grow  shaky  in  our  gums. 
Gone  are  the  joys  that  once  we  knew-, 
Over  the  green,  and  under  the  blue. 
Our  blood  runs  calm,  as  calm  can  be, 
And  we're  old  fogies  —  fogies  three. 

Yet  if  we  be 

Old  fogies  three 
The  life  still  pulses  in  our  veins; 

And  if  the  heart 

Be  dulled  in  part. 
There's  sober  wisdom  in  our  brains. 
We  may  have  heard  that  Hope's  a 

knave. 
And  Fame  a  breath  beyond  the  grave. 
But  what  of  that  —  if  wiser  grown. 
We  make  the  passing  day  our  own, 
And  find  true  joy  where  joy  can  be. 
And   live   our  lives,   though    fogies 
three  ? 

Ay  —  though  we  be 

Old  fogies  three, 
We're  not  so  dulled  as  not  to  dine; 

And  not  so  old 

As  to  be  cold 
To  wit,  to  beauty,  and  to  wine. 
Our  hope  is  less,  our  memory  more; 
Our  sunshine  brilliant  as  of  yore. 
At   four   o'clock,   'twixt   noon    and 

night, 
'Tis  warm  as  morning,  and  as  bright. 
And  every  age  bears  blessings  free. 
Though    we're    old    fogies  —  fogies 

three. 

the  jolly  companions. 

Jolly  companions !  three  times  three  I 
Let  us  confess  what  fools  we  be ! 
We   eat  more   dinner  than  hunger 

craves. 
We  drink  our  passage  to  early  graves, 
And  fill,  and  swill,  till  our  foreheads 

burst. 
For  sake  of  the  wine,  and  not  of  Van 

thirst. 


MACKAY. 


761 


Jolly  companions!  three  times  three, 

And  wished  I  might 

Let  us  confess  what  fools  we  be! 

Take  sudden  flight 

And  dine  alone, 

We  toil  and  moil  from  morn  to  night, 

Unseen,  unknown. 

Slaves  and  drudges  in  health's  despite, 

On  a  mutton  chop  and  a  hot  potato, 
Reading  my  Homer,  or  my  Plato. 

Gathering  and  scraping  painful  gold 

To  hold  and  garner  till  we're  old; 

And  die,  mayhap,  in  middle  prime, 

It  comes  to  this. 

Loveless,  joyless,  all  our  time. 

The  truest  bliss 

Jolly  companions!  three  times  three, 

For  great  or  small 

Let  us  confess  what  fools  we  be ! 

Is  free  to  all ; 

Like  the  fresh  air. 

Or  else  we  leave  our  warm  fireside. 

Like  flowerets  fair. 

Friends  and   comrades,   bairns   and 

Like  night  or  day. 

bride. 

Like  work  or  play ; 

To  mingle  in  the  world's  affairs. 

And  books  that  charm  or  make  ua 

And  vex  our  souls  with  public  cares; 

wiser. 

And  have  our  motives  misconstrued. 

Are  better  comrades  than  a  Kaiser. 

Reviled,  maligned,  misunderstood. 

Jolly  companions!  three  times  three, 

Let  us  confess  what  fools  we  be ! 

THE  GREAT  CRITICS. 

0         Whom  shall  we  praise  ? 

HAPPINESS. 

Let's  praise  the  dead! 

In  no  men's  ways 

I've  drunk  good  wine 

Their  heads  they  raise. 

From  Rhone  and  Rhine, 

Nor  strive  for  bread 

And  filled  the  glass 

With  you  or  me,— 

To  friend  or  lass 

0          So,  do  you  see  ? 

Mid  jest  and  song, 

We'll  praise  the  dead! 

The  gay  night  long. 

Let  living  men 

And  found  the  bowl 

Dare  but  to  claim 

Inspired  the  soul, 

From  tongue  or  pen 

With  neither  wit  nor  wisdom  richer 

Their  meed  of  fame. 

Than  comes  from  water  in  the  pitcher. 

We'll  cry  them  down, 

0          Spoil  their  renown, 

I've  ridden  far 

Deny  their  sense. 

In  coach  and  car. 

Wit,  eloquence, 

Sped  four-in-hand 

Poetic  fire. 

Across  the  land ; 

All  they  desire. 

On  gallant  steed 

Our  say  is  said. 

Have  measured  speed, 

0         Long  live  the  dead! 

With  the  summer  wind 

That  lagged  behind ; 

But   found   more   joy   for  days   to- 

gether 

BE   QUIET,  DO '-I'LL  CALL  MT 

In    tramping    o'er    the    mountain 

MOTHER. 

heather. 

As  I  was  sitting  in  a  wood, 

I've  dined,  long  since, 

Under  an  oak-tree's  leafy  cover, 

With  king  and^prince, 

Musing  in  pleasant  solitude. 

In  solemn  state. 

Who  should  come  by  but  John,  my 

Stiff  and  sedate; 

lover! 

758 


MA  CRAY. 


He  pressed  my  hand  and  kissed  my 
cheek ; 
Then,  warmer  growing,  kissed  the 
other, 
Wliile   I  exclaimed,   and   strove    to 
shriek, 
"jBe    quiet,    do!  —  I^ll    call    my 
mother  r^ 

He  saw  my  anger  was  sincere. 

And  lovingly  began  to  chide  me ; 
Then   wiping   from   my   cheek    the 
tear. 
He  sat  him  on  the  grass  beside 
me, 
He    feigned    such    pretty    amorous 
woe. 
Breathed  such  sweet  vows  one  after 
other, 
I  could  but  smile,  while  whispering 
low, 
"^e    quiet,    do!  —  I^ll    call   my 
mother  !  " 

He   talked    so  long,  and  talked  so 
well. 
And  swore  he  meant  not  to  deceive 
me; 
I  felt  more  grief  than  I  can  tell, 
When  with  a  sigh  he  rose  to  leave 
me. 
"  O  John! "  said  I;  "  and  must  thou 
go? 
I  love  thee  better  than  all  other; 
There  is  no  need  to  hurry  so, — 
/  never  meant  to  call  my  mother.^'' 


THE  LITTLE  MAN, 

There  was  a  little,  very  little, 

Quiet  little  man, 
He  wore  a  little  overcoat 

The  color  of  the  tan ; 
And  when  his  weekly  wage  was  earned 

On  Saturday,  at  night. 
He  had  but  half-a-crown  to  spare 

To  keep  his  spirits  light; 


"  But  that,"  quoth  he,  and  twirled 
his  thumb, 

So  blithe  he  was,  and  free, 
"  Is  quite  enough  for  happiness 

For  a  little  man  like  me." 

And  oft  this  little,  very  little, 

Happy  little  man, 
Would  talk  a  little  to  himself 

About  the  great  world's  plan: 
"  Though    people    think    me    very 
poor, 

1  feel  I'm  very  glad, 
And  this  I'm  sure  could  scarcely  be 

If  I  were  very  bad. 
Rich  knaves    who    cannot    rest    o' 
nights. 

At  every  turn  I  see, 
While  cosy  sleep  unbidden  comes 

To  a  quiet  man  like  me. 

"  For  though  I'm  little,  very  little, 

Do  whate'er  I  can. 
Yet  every  morning  when  I  shave, 

I  shave  an  honest  man ; 
And  every  night  when  I  go  home, 

My  winsome  little  wife, 
Receives  me  smiling  at  the  door. 

And  loves  me  more  than  life:  — 
And  this  is   joy   that   kings   them- 
selves. 

If  thoughts  were  spoken  free, 
Might    give    their   sceptres    to    ex- 
change 

With  a  little  man  like  me. 

"  And  I've  a  little,  quite  a  little, 

Bonnie  little  child, 
A  little  maid  with  golden  hair, 

And  blue  eyes  bright  and  mild; 
She  sits  and  prattles  on  my  knee. 

She's  merry  as  a  song, 
She's  pleasant  as  a  ray  of  light, 

She  keeps  my  heart  from  wrong. 
And  so,  let  kingdoms  rise  or  fall, 

I'll  earn  my  daily  fee, 
And    think      the     world    is    good 
enough 

For  a  little  man  like  me." 


MEBRICK. 


759 


James  Merrick. 


THE  CHAMELEON. 

Two  travellers  of  conceited  cast, 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wilds  they  passed, 
And,  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat, 
Now  talked  of  this,  and  then  of  that. 
Discoursed  a  while,    'mongst   other 

matter. 
Of  the  chameleon's  form  and  natm-e. 

"  A  stranger  animal,"  cries  one, 
"  Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun; 
A  lizard's  body,  lean  and  long; 
A  fish's  head;  a  serpent's  tongue; 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoined; 
And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind! 
How  slow  its  pace !  and  then  its  hue  — 
Who  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue  ?" 

**Hold  there,"  the  other  quick  re- 
plies; 

'"Tis  green  —  I  saw  it  with  these 
eyes, 

As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay. 

And  warmed  it  in  the  sunny  ray; 

Stretched  at  its  ease,  the  beast  I 
viewed. 

And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food." 

"  I've  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you, 
And  must  again  affirm  it  blue ; 
At  leisure  I  the  beast  surveyed 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade." 

"'Tis  green,  'tis  green,  sir,  I  assure 

ye." 
"Green!"  cries  the  other,  in  a  fury: 
**  Why,  sir,  d'ye  think  I've  lost  my 

eyes  ?  " 
*"Twere  no  great  loss,"  the  friend 

replies ; 
"  For  if  they  always  serve  you  thus, 
You'll  find  them  but  of  little  use." 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose, 
From  words    they  almost    came  to 
blows ; 


When  luckily  came  by  a  third  — 
To  him  the  question  they  referred; 
And  begged  he'd  tell   them,   if   he 

knew, 
Whether   the   thing  was   green,  or 

blue? 

"Sirs,"   cried    the    umpire,   "cease 

your  pother. 
The     creature's    neither    one     nor 

t'other; 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night. 
And  viewed  it  o'er  by  candle-light; 
I  marked  it  well  —  'twas  black  as  jet; 
You  stare!  but,  sirs,  I've  got  it  yet, 
And  can  produce  it."     °'Pray,  sir, 

do; 
I'll  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue." 

"  And  I'll  engage  that,  when  you've 

seen 
The  reptile,   you'll    pronounce  him 

green." 
"Well,   then,   at  once,  to  ease  the 

doubt," 
Replies  the  man,  "I'll  turn  him  out; 
And,  when  before  your  eyes  I've  set 

him. 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  I'll  eat 

him." 
He  said ;  then  full  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  and  lo  —  'twas 

white  I 

Both  stared ;  the  man  looks  wondrous 

wise ! 
"  My  children,"  the  chameleon  cries 
(Then    first   the    creature   found   a 

tongue), 
"You    all    are    right,    and    all    are 

wrong; 
When  next  you  talk  of  what   you 

view. 
Think  others  see  as  well  as  you ; 
Nor  wonder  if  you  find  that  none 
Prefers  your  eyesight  to  his  own." 


760 


MOORE. 


Thomas  Moore. 


[From  an  Epistle  to  Samuel  Rogers.] 
THE  MODERN  PUFFING  SYSTEM. 

Unlike  those  feeble  gales  of  praise 
AVliicli  critics  blew  in  former  days, 
Our  modern  puffs  are  of  a  kind 
That  truly,  really  "  raise  the  wind;" 
And  since  they've  fairly  set  in  blow- 
ing. 
We  find  them  the  best  trade-winds 

going. 
Wliat  storm    is  on  the  deep — and 

more 
Is  the  great  power  of  Puff  on  shore, 
Which  jumps  to  glory's  future  tenses 
Before  the  present  even  commences. 
And    makes   "  immortal  "  and   "di- 
vine" of  us, 
Before  the  world  has  read  one  line  of 

us. 
In  old  times  when  the  god  of  song 
Drew  his  own  two-horse  team  along, 
Carrying  inside  a  bard  or  two 
Booked  for  posterity  "  all  through," 
Their  luggage,  a   few    close-packed 

rhymes 
(Like  yours,    my  friend,  for  after- 
times) 
So  slow  the  pull  to  Fame's  abode 
That  folks  oft  slumbered  on  the  road ; 
And  Homers   self  sometimes,  they 

say, 
Took  to  his  nightcap  on  the  way. 
But  now,  how  different  is  the  story 
With  our  new  galloping  sons  of  glory, 
Who,    scorning  all  such  slack  and 

slow  time. 
Dash  to  posterity  in  no  time ! 
Raise  but  one  general  blast  of  puff 
To  start  your  author  —  that's  enough : 
In  vain  the  critics  sit  to  watch  him 
Try  at  the  starting-post  to  catch  him ; 
He's  off  —  the  puifers  carry  it  hol- 
low— 
The  critics,  if  they  please,  may  fol- 
low; 
Ere  they've  laid  down  their  first  po- 
sitions, .        I 


He's  fairly  blown  through  six  edi« 

tions ! 
In  vain  doth  Edinburgh  dispense 
Her  blue-and-yellow  pestilence 
(That  plague  so  awful  in  my  time 
To  young  and  touchy  sons  of  rhyme) ; 
The    Quarterly,  at    three    months' 

date, 
To  catch  the  Unread  One  comes  too 

late; 
And  nonsense,  littered  in  a  hurry. 
Becomes  "immortal"  spite  of  Mur- 
ray. 


[From  The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris]. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  MISS  BIDD  rS 
LETTERS. 

What  a  time  since  I  wrote!  —  I'm  a 

sad  naughty  girl  — 
Though,  like  a  tee-totum,  I'm  all  in 

a  twirl, 
Yet  even  (as  you  wittily  say)  a  tee- 
totum 
Between  all  its  twirls  gives  a  letter 

to  note  'em. 
But,  Lord,  such  a  place!  and  then, 

Dolly,  my  dresses, 
My  gowns,   so  divine!  —  there's  no 

language  expresses, 
Except   just    the    two    words    "  su- 

perbe,"  "magnifique," 
The  trimmings  of  that  which  I  had 

home  last  week! 
It  is  called — I  forget  —  a  la  —  some- 
thing which  sounded 
Like  alicampane  —  but,  in  truth,  I'm 

confounded 
And  bothered,  my  dear,  'twixt  that 

troublesome  boy's 
(Bob's)  cookery  language,  and  Ma-  t 

dame  Le  Roi's: 
What  with  fillets  of  roses,  and  fillets 

of  veal, 
Things  garni  with  lace,  and  things 

garni  with  eel, 


MOORE. 


761 


One's  hair  and  one's  cutlets  both  en 

papillote. 
And  a  thousand  more  things  I  shall 

ne'er  have  by  rote, 
I  can  scarce  tell    tlie  difference,  at 

least  as  to  phrase. 
Between  beef  a  la  Psyche  and  cm-Is 

a  la  braise, — 
But,  in  short,  dear,  I'm  tricked  out 

quite  a  la  franqaise, 
With  my  bonnet — so  beautiful !— high 

up  and  poking, 
Like  things    that  are  put  to  keep 

chimneys  from  smoking. 

Where  shall  I  begin  with  the  endless 

delights 
Of  this  Eden  of  milliners,  monkeys, 

and  sights  — 
This  dear  busy  place,  where  there's 

nothing  transacting, 
But  dressing  and  dinnering,  dancing 

and  acting  ? 

Last  night,  at  the  Beaujon,  a  place 

where  —  I  doubt 
If  I  well    can    describe  —  there  are 

cars,  that  set  out 
From  a  lighted  pavilion,  high  up  in 

tlie  air, 
And  rattle    you    down,  Doll  —  you 

hardly  know  where. 
These  vehicles,  mind  me,  in  which 

you  go  through 
This  delightfully  dangerous  journey, 

hold  two. 
Some  cavalier  asts,  with  humility, 

whether 
You'll  venture  down  with  him  — 

you  smile — 'tis  a  match; 
In  an  instant  you' re  seated,  and  down 

both  together 
Go  thundering,  as  if  you  went  post 

to  old  Scratch ! 
Well,  it  was  but  last  night,  as  I  stood 

and  remarked 
On  the  looks  and  odd  ways  of  the 

girls  who  embarked, 
The  impatience  of  some  for  the  peril- 
ous flight. 
The  forced  giggle  of  others,  'twixt 

pleasure  and  fright. 
That  there  came  up  —  imagine,  dear 

Doll,  if  you  can —  | 


A  fine,  sallow,  sublime,  sort  of  Wer- 
ter-faced  man, 

With  mustachios  that  gave  (what  we 
we  read  of  so  oft) 

The  dear  Corsair  expression,  half  sav- 
age, half  soft, 

As  hyaenas  in  love  may  be  fancied  to 
look,  or 

A  something  between  Abelard  and 
old  Blucher! 

Up  he  came,  Doll,  to  me,  and  uncov- 
ering his  head, 

(Rather  bald,  but  so  warlike!)  in  bad 
Englisli  said, 

'*  Ah !  my  dear — if  Ma'mselle  vill  be 
so  veiy  good  — 

Just  for  von  little  course  "  —  though 
I  scarce  understood 

What  he  wished  me  to  do,  I  said, 
thank  him,  I  would. 

Off  we  set  —  and,  though  'faith,  dear, 
I  hardly  knew  whether 
My  head  or  my  heels  were  the  up- 
permost then, 

For  'twas   like  heaven    and  earth, 
Dolly,  coming  together, — 
Yet,  spite  of  the  danger,  we  dared 
it  again. 

And  oh !  as  I  gazed  on  the  features 
and  air 
Of  the  man  who  for  me  all  this 
peril  defied, 

I  could  fancy  almost  he  and  I  were  a 
pair 
Of  unhappy  young  lovers,who  thus, 
side  by  side, 

Were  taking,  instead  of  rope,  pistol, 
or  dagger,  a 

Desperate  dash  down  the  falls  of  Ni- 
agara ! 


Well,  it  isiiH  the  king,  after  all,  my 

dear  creature ! 
But  don't  you    go  laugh,    now— 

there's  nothing  to  quiz  in't — 
For  grandeur  of  air  and  for  grimness 

of  feature, 
He  might  be  a  king,  Doll,  though, 

hang  him,  he  isn't. 
At  first  I  felt  hurt,  for  I  wished  it,  I 

own. 
If  for  no  other  cause  than  to  vex  Miss 

Malone, — 


'62 


PALMER. 


(The  great  heiress,  you  know,  of 
Shandangan,  who's  here, 

Showing  off  with  such  airs  and  a  real 
Cashmere, 

While  mine's  but  a  paltry  old  rabbit- 
skin,  dear!) 

But  says  Pa,  after  deeply  considering 
the  thing, 

"I  am  just  as  well  pleased  it  should 
not  be  the  king; 


As  I  think  for  my  Biddy  so  gentille 
and  jolie, 
Whose  charms  may  their  price  in 
an  honest  way  fetch, 
That  a   Brandenburg  —  (what  is  a 
Brandenburg,  Dolly  ?) — 
Would  be,  after  all,  no  such  very 
great  catch. 


William  Pitt  Palmer. 


THE  SMACK  IN  SCHOOL. 

A  DISTRICT  school,  uot  far  away. 
Mid  Berkshire's  hills,  one   winter's 

day. 
Was  humming  with  its  wonted  noise 
Of  threescore  mingled  girls  and  boys; 
Some  few  upon  their  tasks  intent. 
But  more  on  furtive  mischief  bent. 
The  while  the  master's  downward 

look 
Was  fastened  on  a  copy-book ; 
When  suddenly,  behind  his  back. 
Rose  sharp  and  clear  a  rousing  smack ! 
As  't  were  a  battery  of  bliss 
Let  off  in  one  tremendous  kiss! 
"  What's  that  ?"  the  startled  master 

cries ; 
"  That,  thir,"  a  little  imp  replies, 
"  Wath    William   Willith,    if    you 

pleathe,  — 
I  thaw  him  kith  Thuthanna  Peathe ! " 
With  frown  to  make  a  statue  thrill, 
The    master    thundered,    "Hither, 

Will!" 
Like  wretch  o'ertaken  in  his  track, 


With  stolen  chattels  on  his  back, 
Will  hung  his  head  in  fear  and  shame, 
And  to  tlie  awful  presence  came,  — 
A  great,  green,  bashful  simpleton. 
The  butt  of  all  good-natured  fun. 
With    smile    suppressed,   and  birch 

upraised. 
The     thunderer     faltered,  —  "I'm 

amazed 
That  you,  my  biggest  pupil,  should 
Be  guilty  of  an  act  so  rude ! 
Before  the  whole  set  school  to  boot — 
What  evil  genius  put  you  to  't  ?  " 
"'Twas  she  herself,  sir,"  sobbed  the 

lad; 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  bad ; 
But  when  Susannah  shook  her  curls, 
And  whispered,  I  was  'fraid  of  girls 
And  dursn't  kiss  a  baby's  doll, 
I  couldn't  stand  it,  sir,  at  all, 
But  up  and  kissed  her  on  the  spot! 
I  know  —  boo-hoo  —  I  ought  to  not. 
But,   somehow,    from  her  looks  — 

boo-hoo  — 
I  thought  she  kird  o'  wished  me  tol " 


PARSONS. 


763 


Thomas  William  Parsons. 


SAINT  PERAY. 
ADDRESSED    TO   H.  T.  P. 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray, 
It  shall  be  to  Saint  Peray. 
He  alone,  of  all  the  brood, 
Ever  did  me  any  good: 
Many  I  have  tried  that  are 
Humbugs  in  the  calendar. 

On  the  Atlantic  faint  and  sick, 
Once  I  prayed  to  Saint  Dominick: 
He  was  holy,  sure,  and  wise ;  — 
Was't  not  he  that  did  devise 
Auto  da  Fes  and  rosaries  ?  — 
But  for  one  in  my  condition 
This  good  saint  was  no  physician. 

Next  in  pleasant  Normandie, 
I  made  a  prayer  to  Saint  Denis, 
In  the  great  cathedral,  where 

All  the  ancient  kings  repose ; 
But,  how  I  was  swindled  there 

At    the    "Golden    Fleece,"— lie 
knows! 

In  my  wanderings,  vague  and  vari- 
ous, 
Reaching  Naples  —  as  I  lay 
Watching  Vesuvius  from  the  bay, 
I  besought  Saint  Januarius. 
But  I  was  a  fool  to  try  him; 
Naught  I  said  could  liquefy  him; 
And  I  swear  he  did  me  wrong. 
Keeping  me  shut  up  so  long 
In  that  pest-house,  with  obscene 
Jews  and    Greeks    and    things  un- 
clean — 
What  need  had  I  of  quarantine  ? 

In  Sicily  at  least  a  score  — 
In  Spain  about  as  many  more  — 
And  in  Rome  almost  as  many 
As  the  loves  of  Don  Giovanni, 
Did  I  pray  to  —  sans  reply; 
Devil  take  the  tribe !  —  said  I, 


Worn  with  travel,  tired  and  lame, 

To  Assisi's  walls  I  came: 

Sad  and  full  of  homesick  fancies, 

I  addressed  me  to  Saint  Francis : 

But  the  beggar  never  did 

Any  thing  as  he  was  bid, 

Never  gave  me  aught  —  but  fleas  — 

Plenty  had  I  at  Assise. 

But  in  Provence,  near  Vaucluse, 
Hard  by  the  Rhone,   1    found  a 
saint 
Gifted  with  a  wondrous  juice. 

Potent  for  the  worst  complaint. 
'Twas  at  Avignon  that  first  — 
In  the  witching  time  of  thirst  — 
To  my  brain  the  knowledge  came 
Of  tliis  blessed  Catholic's  name; 
Forty  miles  of  dust  that  day 
Made  me  welcome  St.  Peray. 

Though  till  then  I  had  not  heard 
Aught  about  him,  ere  a  third 
Of  a  litre  passed  my  lips, 
All  saints  else  were  in  eclipse. 
For  his  gentle  spirit  glided 

With  such  magic  tnto  mine, 
That  methought  such  bliss  as  I  did, 

Poet  never  drew  from  wine. 

Rest  he  gave  me,  and  refection. 
Chastened    hopes,    calm    retrospec- 
tion, 
Softened  images  of  sorrow. 
Bright  forebodings  for  the  morrow, 
Charity  for  what  is  past, 
Faith  in  something  good  at  last. 

Now,  why  should  any  almanac 
The  name  of  this  good  creature  lack  ? 
Or  wherefore  should  the  breviary 
Omit  a  saint  so  sage  and  merry  ? 
The  pope  himself  should  grant  a  day 
Especially  to  Saint  Peray. 
But  since  no  day  hath  been  appointed 
On  purpose,  by  the  Lord's  anointed, 
Let  us  not  wait  —  we'll  do  him  right; 
Send  round  your  bottles,  Hal,  —  and 
set  your  night. 


764 


PIEBPONT, 


John  Pierpont. 


WHITTLING. 

The  Yankee  boy,  before  he's  sent  to 

school, 
Well  knows    the  mysteries  of  that 

magic  tool, 
The  pocket-knife.     To  that  his  wist- 
ful eye 
Tm-ns,  while  he  hears  his  mother's 

lullaby; 
His  hoarded  cents  he  gladly  gives  to 

get  it, 
Then  leaves  no  stone  unturned  till  he 

can  whet  it; 
And  in  the  education  of  the  lad 
No  little  part  that  implement  hath 

had. 
His  pocket-knife  to  the  young  whit- 

tler  brings 
A  growing  knowledge    of    material 

things. 

Projectiles,  music,  and  the  sculptor's 

art, 
His  chestnut  whistle  and  his  shingle 

cart, 
His  elder  pop-gun  with  its  hickory 

rod. 
Its  sharp  explosion  and  rebounding 

wad. 
His  corn-stalk  fiddle,  and  the  deeper 

tone 
That   murmurs  from  his  pumpkin- 
stalk  trombone, 
Conspire  to  teach  the  boy.     To  these 

succeed 
His  bow,  his  arrow  of  a  feathered 

reed, 
His    windmill,   raised    the    passing 

breeze  to  win. 
His  water-wheel,  that  turns  upon  a 

pin, 
Or,  if  his  father  lives  upon  the  shore, 
You'll  see  his  ship,  "  beam  en  is  upon 

the  floor," 


Full  rjgged,  with  raking  masts,  and 
timbers  staunch. 

And  waiting,  near  the  wash-tub,  for 
a  launch. 

Thus,  by  his  genius  and  his  jack- 
knife  driven 

Ere  long  he'll  solve  you  any  problem 
given ; 

Make  any  gimcrack,  musical  or 
mute, 

A  plough,  a  couch,  an  org3,n,  or  a 
fiute ; 

Make  you  a  locomotive  or  a  clock. 

Cut  a  canal,  or  build  a  floating- 
dock, 

Or  lead  forth  beauty  from  a  marble 
block ;  — 

Make  anything,  in  short,  for  sea  or 
shore. 

From  a  child's  rattle  to  a  seventy- 
four; — 

Make  it,  said  I  ?  —  Ay,  when  he  un- 
dertakes it, 

He'll  make  the  thing  and  the  ma- 
chine that  makes  it. 

And    when    the    tiling    is    made, — 

whether  it  be 
To  move  on  earth,  in  air,  or  on  the 

sea; 
Whether  on  water,  o'er  the  waves  to 

glide. 
Or,   upon   land  to  roll,   revolve,  or 

slide ; 
Whether  to  whirl  or  jar,  to  strike  or 

ring, 
Whether  it  be  a  piston  or  a  spring, 
Wheel,  pulley,  tube  sonorous,  wood 

or  brass. 
The  thing  designed  shall  surely  come 

to  pass; 
For,  when  his  hand's  upon  it,  you 

may  know 
That  there's  go  in  it,  and  he'll  make 

it  go. 


POPE, 


765 


Alexander  Pope. 


[From  the  Dunciad.'\ 
DULLNESS. 

In  eldest  time,  ere  mortals  writ  or 

read, 
Ere  Pallas  issued  from  the  Thunder- 
er's head, 
Dullness  o'er  all  possessed  her  ancient 

right, 
Daughter  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night : 
Fate  in  their  dotage  this  fair  idiot 

gave, 
Gross  as  her  sire,  and  as  her  mother 

grave. 
Laborious,  heavy,    busy,    bold   and 

blind. 
She    ruled,   in    native  anarchy,  the 

mind. 
Still  her  old  empire  to  restore  she 

tries, 
For,  born  a  goddess,  Dullness  never 

dies. 

How  hints,  like  spawn,  scarce  quick 
in  embryo  lie, 

How  new-born  nonsense  first  is 
taught  to  cry; 

Maggots  half-formed  in  rhyme  exact- 
ly meet. 

And  learn  to  crawl  upon  poetic  feet. 

Here  one  poor  word  an  hundred 
clenches  makes. 

And  ductile  Dullness  new  meanders 
takes ; 

There  motley  images  her  fancy  strike, 

Figures  ill-paired,  and  similes  unlike. 

She  sees  a  mob  of  metaphors  ad- 
vance. 

Pleased  with  the  madness  of  the  mazy 
dance : 

How  Tragedy  and  Comedy  embrace ; 

How  Farce  and  Epic  get  a  jumbled 
race; 

How  Time  itself  stands  still  at  her 
command, 

Realms  shift  their  place,  and  ocean 
turns  to  land. 

Here  gay  description  Egypt  glads 
with  showers, 


Or  gives  to  Zembla  fruits,  to  Barca 

flowers; 
Glittering  with  ice  here  hoary  hills 

are  seen, 
There   painted    valleys    of    eternal 

green. 
In  cold  December  fragrant  chaplets 

blow. 
And  heavy  harvests  nod  beneath  the 

snow. 
All  these,   and    more,   the  cloud- 
compelling  queen 
Beholds  through  fogs,  that  magnify 

the  scene: 
She,  tinselled  o'er  in  robes  of  varying 

hues, 
With  self-applause  her  wild  creation 

views ; 
Sees  momentary  monsters  rise  and 

fall. 
And  with  her  own  fool's-colors  gilds 

them  all. 


[From  The  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot.     The 
Prologue  to  the  Satires.] 

AN  AUTHOR'S   COMPLAINT. 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John ! 

fatigued,  I  said. 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm 

dead, 
The  Dog-star  rages:  nay,  'tis  past  a 

doubt, 
All  Bedlam,  or  Parnassus,  is  let  out: 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each 

hand. 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round 

the  land. 
What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what 

shades  can  hide  ? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my 

grot  they  glide. 
By  land,   by  water,  they  renew  the 

charge. 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board 


766 


POPE. 


No  place  is  sacred,  not  tlie  clmrcli  is 

free, 
Even  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath-day 

to  me : 
Then  from  the  Mint  walks  forth  the 

man  of  rhyme, 
Happy  to  catch  me,  just  at  dinner- 
time. 
Is  there  a  parson  much  be-mused 

in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk,  foredoomed  his  father's  soul 

to  cross. 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should 

engross  ? 
Is  there,  who,  locked  from  ink  and 

paper,  scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his 

darkened   walls? 
All  fly  to  Twick'nam,  and  in  humble 

strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or 

vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the 

laws, 
Imputes  to  me  and  to  my  works  the 

cause : 
Poor  Cornus  sees  his    frantic  wife 

elope. 
And    curses  wit,    and    poetry,   and 

Pope. 
Friend  to    my    life!    (which    did 

not  you  prolong. 
The  world  had*  wanted  many  an  idle 

song) 
What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague 

remove  ? 
Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath 

or  love? 
A    dire    dilemma!    either  way    I'm 

sped, 
If  foes,  they  write,  —  if  friends,  they 

read  me  dead. 
Seized  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how 

wretched  I! 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not 

lie: 
To  laugh,  were  want  of  goodness  and 

of  grace, 
And  to  be  grave,  exceeds  all  power 

of  face. 
I  sit  with  sad  civility,  I  read 
With  honest  anguish  and  an  aching 

head; 


And  drop  atlast,but  in  unwilling  ears. 
This    saving    counsel,    "  Keep  your 

piece  nine  years." 
Nine  years!  cries  he,  who  high  in 

Drury  Lane, 
Lulled   by  soft  zephyrs  through  the 

broken  pane, 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  and  prints  be- 
fore Term  ends, 
Obliged   by  hunger,  and  request  of 

friends: 
"  The  piece,  you  think,  is  incorrect  ? 

Why,  take  it, 
I'm  all  submission,  what  you'd  have 

it,  make  it." 
Three    things    another's    modest 

wishes  bound. 
My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and 

ten  pound. 
Pitholeon  sends  to  me:  "Youknow 

his  Grace, 
I  want    a   patron;   ask   him   for   a 

place." 
Pitholeon  libelled  me — "but  here's 

a  letter 
Informs  you,  sir,  'twas  when  he  knew 

no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him  ?    Curl  invites 

to  dine, 
He'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn 

divine." 
Bless    me!    a    packet.    — *"Tis    a 

stranger  sues, 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  muse." 
If  I  dislike  it,  "  Furies,  death,  and 

rage!" 
If  I  approve,  "  Commend  it  to  the 

stage." 
There  (thank  my  stars)  my  whole 

commission  ends, 
The  players  and  I  are,  luckily,  no 

friends. 
Fired    that    the    house    reject  him, 

"  'Sdeath,  I'll  print  it, 
And  shame  the  fools  —  Your  inter- 
est, sir,  with  Lintot." 
Lintot,  dull  rogue!  will  think  your 

price  too  much : 
"Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it,  and  re- 
touch." 
All  my  demurs  but  double  his  at- 
tacks ; 
At  last  he  whispers,  "  Do ;  and  we  go 

snacks." 


POPE. 


767 


Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the 

door, 
Sir,  let  me  see  your  works  and  you  no 

more. 
'Tis  sung,  when  Midas'  ears  began 

to  spring, 
(Midas,  a  sacred  person  and  a  king,) 
His  very  minister  wlio  spied   them 

first 
(Some  say  his  queen)  was  forced  to 

speak  or  burst. 
And  is  not  mine,  my  friend,  a  sorer 

case, 
When  every  coxcomb  perks  them  in 

my  face  ? 

You  think  this  cruel  ?  take  it  for  a 
rule, 

No  creature  smarts  so  little  as  a  fool. 

Let  peals  of  laughter,  Codrus!  round 
thee  break. 

Thou  unconcerned  canst  hear  the 
mighty  crack: 

Pit,  box,  and  gallery  in  convulsions 
hurled. 

Thou  standest  unshook  amid  a  burst- 
ing world. 

"Who  shames  a  scribbler  ?  break  one 
cobweb  through, 

He  spins  the  slight,  self-pleasing 
thread  anew: 

Destroy  his  fib,  or  sophistry,  in  vain, 

The  creature's  at  his  dirty  work 
again. 

Throned  in  the  centre  of  his  thin  de- 
signs, 

I'roud  of  a  vast  extent  of  flimsy  lines ! 

Of  all  mad  creatures,  if  the  learned 

are  right, 
tt  is  the  slaver  kills,  and  not  the  bite. 
A.  fool  quite  angry  is  quite  innocent, 
A.las!  'tis  ten  times  worse  when  they 

repent. 
One  dedicates  in  high  heroic  prose, 
A.nd  ridicules  beyond  a  hundred  foes: 
One  from  all  Grub  Street  will  my 

fame  defend, 
A.nd,  more  abusive,  calls  himself  my 

friend. 
I'his  prints  my  letters,  that  expects  a 

bribe, 
And  others  roar  aloud,  "Subscribe, 

subscribe." 


There  are,  who  to  my  person  pay 

their  court: 
I  cough  like   Horace,   and,   though 

lean,  am  short. 
Ammon's  great  son  one  shoulder  had 

too  high, 
Such   Ovid's    nose,    and  "Sir!  you 

have  an  eye."  — 
Go  on,  obliging  creatures,  make  me 

see, 
All  that  disgraced  my  betters,  met  in 

me. 
Say  for  my  comfort,  languishing  in 

bed, 
"  Just  so   immortal  Maro  held  his 

head:" 
And  when  I  die,  be  sure  you  ht  me 

know 
Great    Homer  died  three  thousand 

years  ago. 
Why  did  1  write  ?  what  sin  to  me 

unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink,  my  parents',  or 

my  own  ? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers 

came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade. 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed. 
The  muse  but  served  to  ease  some 

friend,  not  wife, 
To  help  me  through  this  long  dis- 
ease, my  life: 
To  second,  AiiBUXiixox!  thy  art  and 

care. 
And  teach  the  being  you  preserved  to 

bear. 


{From  the  Ilape  of  the  Lock."[ 
BELINDA. 

And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet 
stands  displayed, 

Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 

First,  robed  in  white  the  nymph  in- 
tent adores. 

With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic 
powers. 

A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  ap- 
pears. 

To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes 
she  rears ; 


768 


POPE, 


The  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's 
side, 

Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of 
pride. 

Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once, 
and  here 

The  various  offerings  of  the  world 
appear; 

From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curi- 
ous toil, 

And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glit- 
tering spoil. 

This  casket  India's  glowing  gems 
unlocks, 

And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder 
box. 

The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite. 

Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled, 
and  the  white. 

Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining 
rows. 

Puffs,  powders,  patches,  bibles,  billet- 
doux. 

Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its 
arms : 

The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her 
charms. 

Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every 
grace, 

And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of 
her  face ; 

Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 

And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her 
eyes. 

The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  dar- 
ling care, 

These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide 
the  hair. 

Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others 
plait  the  gown ; 

And  Betty's  praised  for  labors  not 
her  own. 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  the  ethe- 
real plain. 

The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled 
main. 

Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his 
beams 

Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver 
Thames. 

Fair  nymphs  and  well-dressed  youths 
around  her  shone. 

But  everv  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 


On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross 
she  wore, 

Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels 
adore. 

Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  dis- 
close, 

Quick  as  her  eyes  and  as  unfixed  as 
those : 

Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  ex- 
tends ; 

Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  of- 
fends. 

Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers 
strike. 

And  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all 
alike. 

Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void 
of  pride, 

Might  hide  her  faults  if  belles  had 
faults  to  hide : 

If  to  her  share  some  female  errors 
fall. 

Look  on  her  face  and  you'll  forget 
them  all. 
This  nymph,  to   the   destruction 
of  mankind, 

Nourished  two  locks  which  graceful 
hung  behind 

In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to 
deck 

With    shining    ringlets  the  smooth 
ivory  neck. 

Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves 
detains 

And  miglity  hearts  are  held  in  slen- 
der chains. 

With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  be- 
tray, 

Slight  lines  of  hair  surj)rise  the  finny 
pi-ey, 

Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  en- 
snare, 

And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single 
hair. 


[From  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.] 
MERIT  BEYOND  BEAUTY. 

Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and 
honored  most, 
The  wise  man's  passion,  and  the  vain 
man's  toast  ? 


PRAED. 


761 


Why  decked  with  all  that  land  and 
sea  afford, 

Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like 
adored  ? 

Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the 
white-gloved  beaux. 

Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  in- 
most rows  ? 

How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our 
pains, 

Unless  good  sense  preserve  what 
beauty  gains: 

That  men  may  say,  when  we  the 
front-box  grace, 

Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in 
face ! 

Oh!  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress 
all  day, 

Charmed  the  small-pox,  or  chased  old 
age  away ; 

Who  would  not  scorn  what  house- 
wife's cares  produce. 

Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing 
of  use  ? 


To  patch,  nay,  ogle,  might  become  a 

saint, 
Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to 

paint.  I  cay, 

But  since,  alas  I  frail  beauty  must  de- 
Curled  or  uncurled,  since  locks  will 

turn  to  gray; 
Since,  painted  or    not   painted,  all 

shall  fade, 
And  she  who  scorns  a  man  must  die 

a  maid; 
What  then  remains  but  well  our  pow- 
er to  use. 
And  keep  good-humor  still  whate'er 

we  lose  ? 
And  trust  me,  dear!  good-humor  can 

prevail, 
When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams, 

and  scolding  fail; 
Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes 

may  roll; 
Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit 

wins  the  soul. 


WiNTHROP  MACKWORTH    PRAED. 


THE  BELLE  OF   THE    BALL. 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  ray  dreams 
Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty, 

Ere  I  had  done  witli  writing  themes, 
Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chit- 

ty,— 

Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 
Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly; 

In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 
I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  the  country  ball ; 
There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and 
fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  m  that  old  hall 
Of  hands  across  and  down  the  mid- 
dle. 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 
Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  ro- 
mancing: 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our 
star; 
And  then  she  danced,  —  O  Heaven ! 
her  dancing. 


Dark  was  her  hair;  her  hand  was 
white ; 
Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light; 
I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender; 
Her  every  look,  her  eveiy  smile. 
Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  ar- 
rows : 
I  thought  't  was  Venus    from  her 
isle, 
And  wondered  where  she'd  left  her 
sparrows. 

She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers, 
Of    Southey's    prose    or    Words- 
worth's sonnets. 
Of  danglers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles  or  the  last  new  bonnets; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock, — 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle,  — 
If     those    bright    Ups    had    quoted 
Locke, 
I  might  have  thought  they  mup 
mured  Little. 


rr(^ 


PRAED. 


Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry 
June, 
I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 
1  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Jour- 
nal. 
My  mother  laughed;  I  soon  found 
out 
That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feel- 
ing: 
My  father  frowned ;  hut  how  should 
gout 
See  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 


She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean,  — 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen, 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic; 
Her  grandmother  for  many  a  year 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  boun- 
ty; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 


But  titles  and  the  three-per-cents. 

And  mortgages  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,   and    tithes    and 
rents, 
O,  what  are  they  to  love's  sensa- 
tions ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering 
locks,  — 
Such  wealth,  such  honors,  Cupid 
chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks 
As    Baron    Rothschild     for     the 
Muses. 


She  sketched ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the 
beach. 
Grew    lovelier  from  her  pencil's 
shading: 
She  botanized ;  I  envied  each 
Young    blossom    in    her    boudoir 
fading: 
She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand,  — 

She  made  the  Catilina  jealous : 
She    touched    the    organ  ;    I    could 
stand 
For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the 
bellows. 


She  kept  an  album  too,  at  home, 
Well  filled  with    all    an    album's 
glories, — 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 
Patterns    for    trimmings,   Persian 
stories, 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 
Fierce    odes    to    famine    and    to 
slaughter. 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo, 
And  recipes  for  elder-water. 


And  she  was  flattered,  worshipped, 
bored ; 
Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress 
was  noted ; 
Her  poodle-dog  was  quite  adored; 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laughed,  —  and  every  heart  was 
glad. 
As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished ; 
She  frowned, — and  every  look  was 
sad, 
As  if  the  opera  were  demolished. 


She     smiled     on    many     just     for 
fun,  — 
I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in 
it; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one. 
Her  heart  had   thought  of  for  a 
minute. 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so. 
In    phrase    which    was    divinely 
moulded ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  — and 
oh. 
How  sweetly  all    her  notes  were 
folded! 


Our  love  was  most  like  other  loves,  — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver, 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves. 
And    "Fly  Not   Yet'''   upon    the 
river ; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir. 
Some    hopes     of     dying    broken- 
hearted ; 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair. 
The  usual  vows,  —  and    then  we 
parted. 


PRAED. 


n\ 


We  parted :  months  and  years  rolled 
by: 
We  met  again  fom*  summers  after. 
Our  partingwas  all  sob  and  sigh, 
Our  meeting  was  all   mirth    and 
laughter ! 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 
There  had  been  many  other  lodg- 
ers; 
And  she  was   not   the    ball-room's 
belle, 
But  only  Mrs.  — Something — Rog- 
ers! 


QUINCE, 

Near  a  small  village  in  the  West, 
Where  many  very  worthy  people 
Eat,  drink,  play  whist,  and  do  their 
best 
To  guard  from  evil,  church   and 
steeple, 
There    stood  —  alas,    it    stands    no 
more !  — 
A  tenement  of  brick  and  plaster, 
Of  which,  for  forty  years  and  four, 
My  good  friend  Quince  was  lord 
and  master-. 

Welcome  was  he  in  hut  and  hall. 
To  maids  and  matrons,  peers  and 
peasants; 
He  won  the  sympathies  of  all 
By  making  puns  and  making  pres- 
ents. 
Though  all  the  parish  was  at  strife. 
He  kept  his  counsel  and  his  car- 
riage. 
And  laughed,  and  loved  a  quiet  life, 
And  shrunk  from  Chancery-suits 
and  marriage. 

Sound  were  his  claret  and  his  head. 
Warm  were  his   double   ale   and 
feelings ; 
His  partners  at  the  whist-club  said 
That  he  was  faultless  in  his  deal- 
ings. 
He  went  to  church  but  once  a  week, 
Yet  Dr.  Poundtext  always  found 
him 
In  upright  man,  who  studied  Greek, 
And  liked  to  see  his  friends  around 
him. 


Asylums,  hospitals,  and  schools 

He  used  to  swear  were  made  to 
cozen ; 
All  who  subscribed    to    them  were 
fools  — 

And  he  subscribed  to  half  a  dozen. 
It  was  his  doctrine  that  the  poor 

Were  always  able,  never  willing; 
And  so  the  beggar  at  the  door 

Had  first  abuse,  and  then  a  shilling. 

Some  public  principles  he  had. 

But  was  no  flatterer  nor  fretter; 
He  rapped  his  box  when  things  were 
bad. 
And  said:  **  I  cannot  make  them 
better." 
And  nmch  he  loathed  the  patriot's 
snort. 
And   much  he  scorned  the  place- 
man's snuffle. 
And  cut  the  fiercest  quaiTcls  short 
With,   "Patience,  gentlemen,  and 
shuffle!" 

For    full    ten    years    his    pointer, 
Speed, 
Had  couched  beneath  his  master's 
table. 
For  twice  ten  years  his  old  white 
steed 
Had  fattened  in  his  master's  stable. 
Old  Quince  averred  upon  his  troth 
They  were  the  ugliest    beasts  in 
Devon ; 
And  none  knew  why  he  fed  them 
both 
With  his  own  hands,  six  days  in 
seven. 

Whene'er   they  heard    his   ring   or 
knock. 
Quicker  than  thought  the  village 
slatterns 
Flung  down  the  novel,  smoothed  the 
frock. 
And  took  up  Mi-s.  Glasse  or  pat- 
terns. 
Alice  was  studying  baker's  bills; 
Louisa  looked  the  queen  of  knit- 
ters; 
Jane  happened  to  be  hemming  frills; 
And  Nell  by  chance  was  making 
fritters. 


772 


PRIOR. 


But  all  was  vain.     And  while  decay 
Came  like  a    tranquil    moonlight 
o'er  him, 
And  found  him  gouty  still  and  gay, 
With  no  fair  nurse  to  bless  or  bore 
him; 
His  rugged  smile  and  easy  chair, 

His  dread  of  matrimonial  lectures, 
His  wig,  his  stick,  his  powdered  hair 
Were  themes  for  very  grave  conjec- 
tures. 

Some  sages  thought  the  stars  above 
Had  crazed    him  with  excess    of 
knowledge ; 
Some  heard  he  had  been  crossed  in 
love 
Before  he  came  away  from  college ; 
Some  darkly  hinted  that  His  Grace 
Did  nothing,  great  or  small,  with- 
out him ; 
Some  whispered,  with  a  solemn  face. 
That    there    was    something    odd 
about  him. 

I  found  him  at  threescore  and  ten 

A  single  man,  but  bent  quite  dou- 
ble; 
Sickness  was  coming  on  him  then 

To  take  him  from  a  world  of  trou- 
ble. 
He  prosed  of  sliding  down  the  hill, 

Discovered  he  grew  older  daily; 
One  frosty  day  he  made  his  will, 

The  next  he  sent  for  Dr.  Baillie. 


And  so  he  lived,  and  so  he  died; 

When  last  I  sat  beside  his  pillow, 
He  shook  my  hand:  "Ah  me!"   he 
cried, 

"  Penelope  must  wear  the  willow! 
Tell  her  I  hugged  her  rosy  chain 

While  life  was  flickering  in    the 
socket, 
And  say  that  when  I  call  again 

I'll  bring  a  license  in  my  pocket. 

"  I've  left  my  house  and  grounds  to 
Fag  — 
I  hope  his  master's  shoes  will  suit 
him!  — 
And  I'  ve  bequeathed  to    you    my 
nag, 
To  feed  him  for  my  sake,  or  shoot 
him. 
The  vicar's  wife  will  take  old  Fox, 
She'll    find    him    an    uncommon 
mouser ; 
And  let  her  husband  have  my  box, 
My  Bible  and  my  Assmanshauser. 

"  Whether  I  ought  to  die  or  not 

My  doctors  cannot  quite  determine ; 
It's  only  clear  that  1  shall  rot. 

And  be,  like  Priam,  food  for  ver- 
min. 
My  debts  are  paid.     But   Nature's 
debt 

Almost  escaped  my  recollection ! 
Tom,  we  shall  meet  again;  and  yet 

I  cannot  leave  you  my  direction ! " 


Matthew  Prior. 


FOR  MY  0W2i  MONUMENT. 

As  doctors  give  physic  by  way  of 

prevention. 

Matt,  alive  and  in  health,  of  his 

tombstone  took  care; 

For  delays  are  unsafe,  and  his  pious 

intention  [heir. 

May  haply  be  never  fulfilled  by  his 

Then  take  Matt's  word  for  it,  the 
sculptor  is  paid , 
That  the  figure  is  fine,  pray  believe 
your  own  eye ; 


Yet  credit  but  lightly  what  more  may 
be  said. 
For  we  flatter  ourselves,  and  teach 
marble  to  lie. 

Yet  counting  so  far  as  to  fifty  his 
years. 
His  virtues  and  vices  were  as  other 
men's  are; 
High  hopes    he  conceived,   and  he 
smothered  great  fears. 
In  a  life  party-colored,  half  pleas- 
ure, half  care. 


PBIOR. 


773 


NTor  to  business  a  drudge,  nor  to  fac- 
tion a  slave, 
He    strove  to  make  int'rest   and 
freedom  agree; 
In    public  employments  industrious 
and  grave. 
And  alone  with  his  friends,  Lord! 
how  merry  was  he. 

Now  in  equipage  stately,  now  humbly 
on  foot. 
Both    fortunes    he    tried,    but    to 
neither  would  trust; 
And  whirled    in  the  round  as  the 
wheel  turned  about, 
He  found  riches  had  wings,   and 
knew  man  was  but  dust. 

This  verse,   little    polished,  though 
mighty  sincere, 
Sets  neither  his  titles  nor  merits  to 
view; 
It  says  that  his  relics  collected  lie 
here, 
And  no  mortal  yet  knows  if  this 
may  be  true. 

Fierce  robbers  there  are  that  infest 
the  highway, 
So  Matt  may  "be  killed,  and  his 
bones  never  found; 
False  witness  at  court,  and  fierce  tem- 
pests at  sea, 
So  Matt  may   yet  chance    to   be 
hanged  or  be  drowned. 

If  his  bones  lie  in  earth,  roll  in  sea, 
fly  in  air. 
To  Fate  we  must  yield,  and  the 
thing  is  the  same; 
And  if    passing  thou  giv'st  him  a 
smile  or  a  tear, 
He  cares  not — yet,  prithee,  be  kind 
to  his  fame. 


AN  EPITAPH. 

Interred  beneath  this  marble  stone 
Lie  sauntering  Jack  and  idle  Joan. 
While  rolling  threescore  years  and  one 
Did  round  this  globe  their  courses  run ; 
If  human  things  went  ill  or  well. 
If  changing  empires  rose  or  fell, 


The  morning  past,  the  evening  came. 

And  found  this  couple  just  the  same. 

They  walked  and  ate,  good  folks: 
What  then  ? 

Why, then  they  walked  and  ate  again; 

Tliey  soundly  slept  the  night  away; 

They  did  just  nothing  all  the  day. 

Xor  sister  either  had  nor  brother; 

They  seemed  just  tallied  for  each 
other. 

Their  moral  and  economy 

Most  perfectly  they  made  agree ; 

Each  virtue  kept  its  proper  bound, 

Nor  trespassed  on  the  other's  ground. 

Nor  fame  nor  censure  they  regarded; 

They  neither  punished  nor  rewarded. 

He  cared  not  what  the  footman  did; 

Her  maids  she  neither  praised  nor 
chid: 

So  every  servant  took  his  course, 

And,  bad  at  first,  they  all  grew  worse. 

Slothful  disorder  filled  his  stable, 

And  sluttish  plenty  decked  her  table. 

Their  beer  was  strong,  their  wine  was 
port ; 

Their  meal  was  large,  their  grace  was 
short. 

They  gave  the  poor  the  remnant  meat. 

Just  when  it  grew  not  fit  to  eat. 

They  paid  the  church  and  parish  rate, 

And  took,  but  read  not,  the  receipt; 

For  wliich  they  claimed  their  Sun- 
day's due. 

Of  slumbering  in  an  upper  pew. 

No  man's  defects  sought  they  to 
know. 

So  never  made  themselves  a  foe. 

No  man's  good  deeds  did  they  com- 
mend. 

So  never  raised  themselves  a  friend. 

Nor  cherished  they  relations  poor, 

That  might  decrease  their  present 
store ; 

Nor  barn  nor  house  did  they  repair. 

That  might  oblige  their  future  heir. 

They  neither  added  nor  confounded; 

They  neither  wanted  nor  abounded. 

Nor  tear  nor  smile  did  they  employ 

At  news  of  grief  or  public  joy. 

When  bells  were  rung  and  bonfires 
made 

If  asked,  they  ne'er  denied  their  aid; 

Their  jug  was  to  the  ringers  carried, 

Whoever  either  died  or  married. 


774 


PRIOR. 


Their  billet  at  the  fire  was  found, 
AVhoever  was  deposed  or  crowned. 
Nor  good,  nor  bad,   nor  fools,  nor 

wise, 
They  would    not   learn,    nor  could 

advise; 
Without  love,  hatred,  joy,  or  fear. 
They  led  —  a  kind  of  —  as  it  were ; 
Nor  wished,  nor  cared,  nor  laughed, 

nor  cried. 
And  so  they  lived,  and  so  they  died. 


FliOM  "  THE  THIEF  AND  THE 
CORDELIER." 

"  What  frightens  you  thus,  my  good 

son  ?"  says  the  priest; 
"  You  mui'dered,  are  sorry,  and  have 

been  confessed." 
"O  father!    my  sorrow  will  scarce 

save  my  bacon; 
For  'twas  not  that  1  mm'dered,  but 

that  I  was  taken." 


*'  Pooh,  prithee  ne'  er  trouble  thy  head 

with  such  fancies ; 
Rely  on  the  aid  you  shall  have  from 

St.  Francis; 
If  the  money  you  promised  be  brought 

to  the  chest. 
You  have  only  to  die ;  let  the  church 

do  the  rest." 


"And  what  will  folks  say,  if  they  see 

you  afraid  ? 
It  reflects  upon  me,  as  I  knew  not  my 

trade. 
Courage,  friend,  for  to-day  is  your 

period  of  sorrow; 
And  things  will  go  better,  believe  me, 

to-morrow." 


*'  To-morrow!"  our  hero  replied  in  a 
fright; 

"He  that's  hanged  before  noon, 
ought  to  think  of  to-night." 

"  Tell  your  beads,"  quoth  the  priest, 
"  and  be  fairly  trussed  up, 

For  you  surely  to-night  shall  in  Para- 
dise sup." 


"  Alas ! "  quoth  the  'squire,  "  howe'er 

sumptuous  the  treat, 
Parbleu !  I  shall  have  little  stomach 

to  eat ; 
I  should  therefore  esteem  it  great 

favor  and  grace, 
Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  go  in  my 

place." 

"  That  I  would,"  quoth  the  father, 

" and  thank  you  to  boot; 
But  our  actions,  you  know,  with  our 

duty  must  suit; 
The  feast  I  proposed  to  you,  I  cannot 

taste, 
For  this  night,  by  our  order,  is  marked 

for  a  fast." 


iFrom  Alma.'] 

RICHARD'S  THEORY  OF  THE  MIND. 

I  SAY,  whatever  you  maintain 
Of  Alma  in  the  heart  or  brain, 
The  plainest  man  alive  may  tell  ye 
Her  seat  of  empire  is  the  belly. 
From  hence  she  sends  out  those  sup- 
plies, 
Which    make    us    either    stout    or 

wise: 
Your  stomach  makes  the  fabric  roll 
Just  as  the  bias  rules  the  bowl. 
The  great  Achilles  might  employ 
The  strength  designed  to  ruin  Troy ; 
He  dined  on  lion's  marrow,  spread 
On  toasts  of  annnunition  bread; 
But,  by  his  mother  sent  away 
Amongst  the  Thracian  girls  to  play, 
Effeminate  he  sat  and  quiet  — 
Strange    product    of    a    cheese-cake 

diet! 
Observe  the  various  operations 
Of  food  and  drink  in  several  nations. 
Was  ever  Tartar  fierce  or  cruel 
Upon  the  strength  of  water  gruel  ? 
But  who  shall  stand  his  rage  or  force 
If  first  he  rides,  then  eats  his  horse? 
Salads,  and  eggs,  and  lighter  fare 
Tune  the  Italian  spark's  guitar: 
And,  if  I  take  Dan  Congreve  right. 
Pudding    and    beef    make    Britons 
fight. 


8AXE, 


77« 


John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


ffOJp-  CTRUS  LArJ>   THE  CABLE. 

Come,  listen  all  unto  my  song 

It  is  no  silly  fable; 
'Tis  all  about  the  mighty  cord 

They  call  the  Atlantic  Cable. 

Bold  Cyrus  Field,  he  said,  says  he, 

1  have  a  pretty  notion 
That  1  can  run  a  telegraph 

Across  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 

Then  all  the  people  laughed,  and  said, 
They'd  like  to  see  him  do  it; 

He  might  get  half-seas  over,  but 
He  never  could  get  through  it : 

To  carry  out  his  foolish  plan 

He  never  would  be  able ; 
He  might  as  well  go  hang  himself 

With  his  Atlantic  Cable. 

But  Cyrus  was  a  valiant  man, 

A  fellow  of  decision: 
And  heeded  not  their  mocking  words. 

Their  laughter  and  derision. 

Twice  did  his  bravest  efforts  fail, 
And  yet  his  mind  was  stable; 

He  wa'n't  the  man  to  break  his  heart 
Because  he  broke  his  cable. 

*'  Once  more,  my  gallant  boys!"  he 
cried ; 
^^  Three    times!  —you    tnow  the 
fable,  — 
(I'll  make  it  thirty,''^  muttered  he, 
" But  I  will  lay  the  cable!") 

Once  more  they  tried,  —  hurrah  ! 
hurrah ! 

Wliat  means  this  great  commotion? 
The  Lord  be  praised!  the  cable's  laid 

Across  the  Atlantic  Ocean ! 

Loud  rang  the  bells,  —  for  flashing 
through 

Six  hundred  leagues  of  water, 
Old  Mother  England's  benison 

Salutes  her  eldest  daughter] 


O'er  all  the  land  the  tidings  speed, 
And  soon,  in  every  nation. 

They'll  hear  about  the  cable  with 
Profoundest  admiration ! 

Now  long  live  President  and  Queen ; 

And  long  live  gallant  Cyrus; 
And  may  his  courage,  faith,  and  zeal 

With  emulation  fire  us ; 

And  may  we  honor  evermore 
The  manly,  bold,  and  stable ; 

And  tell    our  sons,  to  make  them 
brave, 
How  Cyrus  laid  the  cable ! 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN, 

I  LONG  have  been  puzzled  to  guess, 

And  so  I  have  frequently  said, 
What  the  reason  could  really  be 

That  I  never  have  happened  to 
wed; 
But  now  it  is  perfectly  clear, 

I  am  under  a  natural  ban ; 
The  girls  are  already  assigned,  — 

And  I'm  a  superfluous  man! 

Those  clever  statistical  chaps 

Declare  the  numerical  run 
Of  women  and  men  in  the  world. 

Is  twenty  to  twenty-and-one ; 
And  hence  in  the  pairing,  you  see. 

Since  wooing  and  wedding  began, 
For  every  connubial  score, 

They've  got  a  superfluous  man! 

By  twenties  and  twenties  they  go, 

And  giddily  rush  to  their  fate, 
For  none  of  the  number,  of  course, 

Can  fail  of  a  conjugal  mate ; 
But  while  they  are  yielding  in  scores 

To  Nature's  inflexible  plan, 
There's  never  a  woman  for  me,  — 

For  I'm  a  superfluous  man  I 

It  isn't  that  I  am  a  churl, 
To  solitude  over-inclined; 


776 


SAXE. 


It  isn't  that  I  am  at  fault 

In  morals  or  manners  or  mind ; 

Then  what  is  the  reason,  you  ask, 
I'm  still  with  the  bachelor-clan  ? 

I  merely  was  numbered  amiss,  — 
And  I'm  a  superfluous  man! 

It  isn't  that  I  am  in  want 

Of  personal  beauty  or  grace, 
For  many  a  man  with  a  wife 

Is  uglier  far  in  the  face; 
Indeed,  among  elegant  men 

I  fancy  myself  in  the  van ; 
But  what  is  the  value  of  that, 

When  I'm  a  superfluous  man  ? 

Although  I  am  fond  of  the  girls, 

For  aught  I  could  ever  discern 
The  tender  emotion  I  feel 

Is  one  that  they  never  return ; 
'Tis  idle  to  quarrel  with  fate! 

For,  struggle  as  hard  as  I  can. 
They're  mated  already,  you  know,  — 

And  I'm  a  superfluous  man! 

Ko  wonder  I  gnmible  at  times. 

With  women  so  pretty  and  plenty, 
To  know  that  I  never  was  born 

To  figure  as  one  of  the  twenty ; 
But  yet,  when  the  average  lot 

With  critical  vision  I  scan, 
I  think  it  may  be  for  the  best 

That  I'm  a  superfluous  man! 


THE  PUZZLED   CEXSUS-TAKEU. 

"  Got  any  boys  ?  "  the  Marshal  said 
To  a  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 

And  the  lady  shook  her  flaxen  head. 
And  civilly  answered  "JVei«  /* 

"  Got  any  girls  ?  "  the  Marshal  said 
To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine; 

And  again  the  lady  shook  her  head. 
And  civilly  answered,  ""Nein! " 

"  But  some  are  dead  ?  "  the  Marshal 
said. 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine; 
And  again  the  lady  shook  her  head. 

And  civilly  answered,  "iV"em/" 


*  Nein,  prouounced  nine,  is  tbe  German 
for  "No." 


''  Husband,  of  course  ?  "  the  Marshal 
said 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine; 
And  again  she  shook  her  flaxen  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  "iVein  /  " 

"The  devil  you  have!"  the  Marshal 
said 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine: 
And  again  she  shook  her  flaxen  head. 

And  civilly  answered,  "JVem  /  " 

"  Now  what  do  you  mean  by  shaking 
your  head. 
And  always  answering,  'JV/ne'  ?" 
*' Jc/i  kann  nicht  Englisch!'"  civilly 
said 
The  lady  from  over  the  Rhine. 


SONG  OF  SARATOGA. 

"Peay,  what    do  they  do    at    the 
Springs  ?" 

The  question  is  easy  to  ask; 
But  to  answer  it  fully,  my  dear, 

Were  rather  a  serious  task. 
And  yet,  in  a  bantering  way. 

As    the    magpie  or   mocking-bird 
sings, 
I'll  venture  a  bit  of  a  song 

To  tell  what  they  do  at  the  Springs ! 

Imprimis,  my  darling,  they  drink 

The  waters  so  sparkling  and  clear; 
Though  the  flavor  is  none  of  the  best. 

And  the  odor  exceedingly  queer; 
But  the  fluid  is  mingled,  you  know, 

With  wholesome  medicinal  things, 
So  they  drink,  and  they  drink,  and 
they  drink,  — 

And   that's  what  they  do  at  the 
Springs ! 

Then  with  appetites  keen  as  a  knife, 

They  hasten  to  breakfast  or  dine 
(The  latter  precisely  at  three. 

The  former  from  seven  till  nine. ) 
Ye  gods !  what  a  rustle  and  rush 
When    the    eloquent    dinner-bell 
rings ! 
Then  they  eat,  and  they  eat,  and  they 
eat, — 
And  that's  what  they  do  at  the 
Springs  I 


SAXE. 


777 


Now  they    stroll    in    the  beautiful 
walks, 
Or  loll  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  ; 
Where  many  a  whisper  is  heard 

That  never  is  told  by  the  breeze; 
And    hands    are    commingled    with 
hands, 
Regardless  of  conjugal  rings ; 
And  they  flirt,  and  they  flirt,  and  they 
flirt,— 
And  that's  what  they  do  at  the 
Springs! 

The  drawing-rooms  now  are  ablaze, 

And  music  is  shrieking  away; 
Terpsichore  governs  the  hour, 

And  Fashion  was  never  so  gay! 
An  arm  round  a  tapering  waist. 

How  closely  and  fondly  it  clings! 
So  they  waltz,  and  they  waltz,  and 
they  waltz,  — 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the 
Springs ! 

In  short  —  as  it  goes  in  the  world  — 
They  eat,  and  they  drink,  and  they 
sleep ; 
They  talk,  and  they  walk,  and  they 
woo; 
They  sigh,  and  they  laugh,  and 
they  weep ; 
They  read,  and  they  ride,  and  they 
dance ; 
(With  other  unspeakable  things;)  . 
They  pray,  and  they  play,  and  they 
pay,  — 
And  that's  what  they  do  at  the 
Springs ! 


EAIiL  Y  RISING. 

*'  GrOD  bless  the  man  who  first  in- 
vented sleep ' ' 
So  Sancho  Panza  said,  and  so  say  I: 

And  bless  him,  also,  that  he  didn't 
keep 
His  great  discovery  to  himself;  nor 
try 

To  make  it  —  as  the  lucky    fellow 
might  — 

A  close  monopoly  by  patent-right ! 


Yes ;  bless  the  man  who  first  invented 

sleep 
{I  really  can't  avoid  the  iteration); 
But  blast  the  man  with  curses  loud 

and  deep, 
Whate'er  the  rascal's  name,  or  age, 

or  station. 
Who  first  invented,  and  went  round 

advising. 
That  artificial  cut-off,— Early  Rising. 

"Rise  with  the  lark,  and  with  the 

lark  to  bed," 
Observes  some  solemn,  sentimental 

owl; 
Maxims  like  these  are  very  cheaply 

said; 
But,  ere  you  make  yourself  a  fool 

or  fowl. 
Pray  just  inquire  about  his  rise  and 

fall. 
And  whether   larks  have  any  beds 

at  all! 

The  time  for  honest  folks  to  be  abed 

Is  in  the  morning,  if  I  reason  right: 

And  he  who  cannot  keep  his  precious 

head 

Upon  the  pillow  till  it's  fairly  light. 

And    so  enjoy   his    forty    morning 

winks, 
Is  up  to  knavery ;  or  else  — he  drinks. 

Thomson,  who  sang  about  the  "  Sea 

sons,"  said 
It   was  a  glorious  thing  to  rise  in 

season ; 
But  then  he  said  it  —  lying  —  in  his 

bed. 
At  ten  o'clock,  a.  m.,  —  the  very 

reason 
He  wrote  so  charmingly.   The  simple 

fact  is. 
His  preaching  wasn't  sanctioned  by 

his  practice. 

'Tis,  doubtless,  well  to  be  sometimes 
awake,  — 
Awake    to    duty,   and    awake    to 
truth,  — 
But  when,  alas!  a  nice  review  we 
take 
Of  our  best  deeds  and  days,  w# 
find,  in  sooth, 


778 


SAXE. 


The  hours  that  leave  the  slightest 

cause  to  weep 
Are  those  we  passed  in  childhood  or 

asleep ! 

'  Tis    beautiful  to    leave  the  world 

awhile 
For  the  soft  visions  of  the  gentle 

night; 
And  free,  at  last,  from  mortal  care  or 

guile. 
To  live  as  only  in  the  angels'  sight, 
In  sleep's  sweet  realm  so  cosily  shut 

in. 
Where,  at  the  worst,  we  only  dream 

of  sin! 

So  let  us  sleep,  and  give  the  Maker 
praise. 
I  like  the  lad,  who,  when  his  father 
thought 

To  clip  his  morning  nap  by  hack- 
neyed phrase 
Of  vagrant  worm  by  early  songster 
caught, 

Cried,  ''Served  him  right!  —  it's  not 
at  all  surprising; 

The  worm  was    punished,    sir,   for 
early  rising!  " 


ABOUT  HUSBANDS. 

"A  man  is.  in  general,  better  pleased 
wlien  he  has  a  good  dinner  upon  his  table, 
than  Avhen  his  wife  speaks  Greek."—  Sam. 

JOHXSON. 

Johnson  was  right.     I  don't  agree  to 
all 
The  solemn  dogmas  of  the  rough 
old  stager; 
But  very  much  approve  what  one 
may  call 
The  minor  morals  of  the  "Ursa 
Major." 

Johnson  was  right.     Although  some 
men  adore 
Wisdom  in  woman,  and  with  learn- 
ing cram  her, 
There  isn't  one  in  ten  but  thinks  far 
more 
Of    his    own  grub  than    of    his 
spouse's  grammar. 


I  know  it  is  the  greatest  shame  in  life; 
But   who  among  them  (save,  per- 
haps, myself) 
Returning  hungry  home,  but  asks  his 
wife 
What  beef  —  not  books  —  she  has 
upon  the  shelf  ? 

Though  Greek  and  Latin  be  the  lady's 
boast. 
They're  little  valued  by  her  loving 
mate; 
The  kind  of  tongue  that  husbands 
relish  most 
Is  modern,  boiled,  and  served  upon 
a  plate. 

Or  if,  as  fond  ambition  may  com- 
mand. 
Some  home-made  verse  the  happy 
matron  show  him. 
What  mortal    spouse  but  from  her 
dainty  hand 
Would  sooner  see  a  pudding  '^han  a 
poem  ? 

Young  lady,— deep  in  love  with  Tom 
or  Harry, — 
'Tis  sad  to  tell  you  such  a  tale  as 
this; 
But  here's  the  moral  of  it:  Do  not 
marry ; 
Or,  marrying,   take  your  lover  as 
he  is,  — 

A  very  man,  —  with  something  of  the 
brute 
(Unless    he  prove  a    sentimental 
noddy), 
With  passions  strong  and  appetite  to 
boot, 
A  thirsty  soul   within   a    hungry- 
body. 

Avery  man,  —  not  one  of  nature's 
clods, — 
With  human  failings,  whether  saint 
or  sinner; 
Endowed,  perhaps,  with  genius  from 
the  gods. 
But  apt  to  take  his  temper  fromhia 
dinner. 


SAXE. 


779 


RAILROAD  RHYME. 

Singing  through  the  forests, 

Rattling  over  ridges ; 
Shooting  under  arches, 

Kumbling  over  bridges ; 
Whizzing  through  the  mountains, 

Buzzing  o'er  the  vale,  — 
Bless  me !  this  is  pleasant, 

Kiding  on  the  rail ! 

Men  of  different  ''  stations  '* 

In  the  eye  of  fame. 
Here  are  very  quickly 

Coming  to  the  same; 
High  and  lowly  people. 

Birds  of  every  feather, 
On  a  common  level, 

Travelling  together. 

Gentleman  in  shorts, 

Looming  very 'tall; 
Gentleman  at  large 

Talking  very  small; 
Gentleman  in  tights, 

With  a  loose-ish  mien; 
Gentleman  in  gray, 

Looking  rather  green; 

Gentleman  quite  old, 

Asking  for  the  news ; 
Gentleman  in  black, 

In  a  fit  of  blues ; 
Gentleman  in  claret, 

Sober  as  a  vicar; 
Gentleman  in  tweed. 

Dreadfully  in  liquor! 

Stranger  on  the  right 

Looking  very  sunny, 
Obviously  reading 

Something  rather  funny. 
Now  the  smiles  are  tliicker,  — 

Wonder  what  they  mean ! 
Faith,  he's  got  the  Kiiicker- 

Bocker  Magazine! 

Stranger  on  the  left 

Closing  up  his  peepers; 
Now  he  snores  amain, 

Like  the  Seven  Sleepers; 
At  his  feet  a  volume 

Gives  the  explanation, 
How  the  man  grew  stupid 

From  "Association," 


Ancient  maiden  lady 

Anxiously  remarks. 
That  there  must  be  peril 

'Mong  so  many  sparks; 
Roguish-looking  fellow, 

Turning  to  the  stranger, 
Says  it's  his  opinion 

She  is  out  of  danger  I 

Woman  with  her  baby, 

Sitting  ms-h-vis; 
Baby  keeps  a-squalling. 

Woman  looks  at  me ; 
Asks  about  the  distance. 

Says  it's  tiresome  talking, 
Noises  of  the  cars 

Are  so  very  shocking! 

Market-woman,  careful 

Of  the  precious  casket, 
Knowing  eggs  are  eggs. 

Tightly  holds  her  basket, 
Feeling  that  a  smash, 

If  it  came,  would  surely 
Send  her  eggs  to  pot, 

Rather  prematurely. 

Singing  through  the  forests, 

Rattling  over  ridges ; 
Shooting  under  arches, 

Rumbling  over  bridges; 
Whizzing  through  the  mountains. 

Buzzing  o'er  the  vale,  — 
Bless  me!  this  is  pleasant, 

Riding  on  the  rail  I 


THE  FAMILY  MAX. 

I  ONCE  was  a  jolly  young  beau, 
And  knew  how  to  pick  up  a  fan, 

But  I've  done  with  all  that,  you  must 
know. 
For  now  I'm  a  family  man ! 

When  a  partner  I  ventured  to  take, 
The  ladies  all  favored  the  plan ; 

They  owned  I  was  certain  to  make 
"  Such  an  excellent  family  man!  '•' 

If  I  travel  by  land  or  by  water, 
I  have  charge  of  some  Susan  oi 
Ann; 


780 


STODDABD. 


Mrs.  Brown  is  so  sure  that  her  daugh- 
ter 
Is  safe  with  a  family  man ! 

The  trunks  and  the  bandboxes  round 
'em 
With  something  like  horror  I  scan, 
But  though  I  may  mutter  "  Confound 
'em!" 
I  smile  —  like  a  family  man ! 

I  once  was  as  gay  as  a  templar, 
But  levity's  now  under  ban; 


Young  people  must  have  an  exem- 
plar, 
And  I  am  a  family  man ! 

The  club-men  I  meet  in  the  city 
All  treat  me  as  well  as  they  can, 

And  only  exclaim,  "  What  a  pity 
Poor  Tom  is  a  family  man !  " 

I  own  I  am  getting  quite  pensive; 

Ten  children,  from  David  to  Dan, 
Is  a  family  rather  extensive ; 

But  then  — I'm  a  family  man! 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


THE   MISTAKE. 

He  saw  in  sight  of  his  house, 

At  dusk,  as  stories  tell, 
A  woman  picking  mulberries, 

And  he  liked  her  looks  right  well. 

He  struggled  out  of  his  chair. 
And  began  to  beckon  and  call ; 

But  she  went  on  picking  mulberries, 
Nor  looked  at  him  at  all. 

"  If  Famine  should  follow  you. 
He  would  find  the  hai-vest  in ; 

You  think  yourself  and  your  mulber- 
ries 
Too  good  for  a  mandarin. 

I  have  yellow  gold  in  my  sleeve.  " 
But  she  answered,  sharp  and  bold, 

*'  Be  oif !  Let  me  pick  my  mulberries, 
I  am  bought  with  no  man's  gold.  " 

She  scratched  his  face  with  her  nails, 
Till  he  turned  and  fled  for  life, 

For  the  lady  picking  mulberries 
Was  his  true  and  virtuous  wife ! 


TOO    OLD   FOR   KISSES. 

My  uncle  Philip,  hale  old  man, 
Has  children  by  the  dozen; 

Tom,  Ned,  and  Jack,  and  Kate  and 
Ann  — 
How  many  call  me  "  Cousin  ?  " 


Good  boys  and  girls,  the  best  was 
Bess, 

I  bore  her  on  my  shoulder ; 
A  little  bud  of  loveliness 

That  never  should  grow  older  I 
Her  eyes  had  such  a  pleading  way. 

They  seemed  to  say,  "  Don't  strike 
me. " 
Then,  growing  bold  another  day, 

''  I  mean  to  make  you  like  me.  " 
I  liked  my  cousin,  early,  late. 

Who  liked  not  little  misses : 
She  used  to  meet  me  at  the  gate, 

Just  old  enough  for  kisses ! 

This  was,  I  think,  three  years  ago. 

Before  I  went  to  college : 
I    learned    but  one  thing  —  how  to 
row, 

A  healthy  sort  of  knowledge. 
When  I  was  plucked,  {we  won  the 
race, ) 

And  all  was  at  an  end  there, 
I  thought  of  Uncle  Philip's  place. 

And  every  country  friend  there. 
My  cousin  met  me  at  the  gate, 

She  looked  five,  ten  years  older, 
A  tall  young  woman,  still,  sedate. 

With  manners  coyer,  colder. 
She    gave    her   hand    with    stately 
pride. 

"  Why,  what  a  greeting  this  is! 
You  used  to  kiss  me."    She  replied, 

"  I  am  too  old  for  kisses." 


SWIFT. 


781 


I  loved  — I  loved  my  Cousin  Bess, 

She's  always  in  my  mind  now; 
A  full-blown  bud  of  loveliness, 

The  rose  of  womankind  now ! 
She  must  have  suitors ;  old  and  young 

Must  bow  their  heads  before  her; 
Vows  must  be  made,  and  songs  be 
sung 

By  many  a  mad  adorer. 
But  I  must  win  her:  she  must  give 

To  me  her  youth  and  beauty ; 
And  I  —  to  love  her  while  I  live 

Will  be  my  happy  duty. 
For  she  will  love  me  soon  or  late, 

And  be  my  bliss  of  blisses. 
Will  come  to  meet  me  at  the  gate. 

Nor  be  too  old  for  kisses ! 


THE   MARRIAGE  KNOT. 

I  KNOW  a  bright  and  beauteous  May, 

Who  knows  I  love  her  well ; 
But  if  she  loves,  or  will  some  day, 

I  cannot  make  her  tell. 
She  sings  the  songs  I  write  for  her. 

Of  tender  hearts  betrayed ; 
But  not  the  one  that  I  prefer, 

About  a  country  maid. 
The  hour  when  I  its  burden  hear 

Will  never  be  forgot : 
"  O  stay  not  long,  but  come,  my  dear. 

And  knit  our  marriage  knot ! " 

It  is  about  a  country  maid  — 

I  see  her  in  my  mind ; 
She  is  not  of  her  love  afraid. 

And  cannot  be  unkind. 


She  knits,  and  sings  with  many  a 
sigh, 
And,  as  her  needles  glide. 
She  wishes,  and  she  wonders  why 

He  is  not  at  her  side. 
"  He  promised  he  would  meet  me 
here. 
Upon  this  very  spot: 

0  stay  not  long,  but  come,  my  dear. 
And  knit  our  marriage  knot!  " 

My  lady  will  not  sing  the  song; 

*'  Why  not  ?  "  I  say.     And  she, 
Tossing  her  head,  "It  is  too  long." 

And  I,    "  Too  short,  may  be." 
She  has  her  little  wilful  ways. 

But  I  persist,  and  then, 
"  It  is  not  maidenly,"  she  says, 

"  For  maids  to  sigh  for  men." 
**  But  men  must  sigh  for  maids,  I 
fear, 

I  know  it  is  my  lot. 
Until  you  whisper,  '  Come,  my  dear. 

And  knit  our  marriage  knot ! '  " 

Why  is  my  little  one  so  coy  ? 
Why  does  she  use  me  so  ? 

1  am  no  fond  and  foolish  boy 
To  lightly  come  and  go. 

A  man  who  loves,  I  know  my  heart. 

And  will  know  hers  ere  long, 
For,  certes,  I  will  not  depart 

Until  she  sings  my  song. 
She  learned  it  all,  as  you  shall  hear, 

No  word  has  she  forgot. 
"Begin,  my  dearest."     "Come,  my 
dear. 

And  knit  our  marriage  knot ! " 


Jonathan  Swift. 


FROM 


VERSES  ON  HIS  OWN 
DEATH," 


Some  great  misfortune  to  portend 
No  enemy  can  match  a  friend. 
With  all  the  kindness  they  profess, 
The  merit  of  a  lucky  guess  — 
When   daily    how-d'ye's     come    of 

course, 
And  servants  answer:  "Worse  and 

worse!"  — 


Would  please  them  better  than  to  tell. 
That,  God  be  praised !  the.dean  is  well. 
Then  he,  who  prophesied  the  best. 
Approves  his  foresight  to  the  rest: 
"  You  know  I  always  feared  the  worst, 
And  often  told  you  so  at  first." 
He'd  rather  choose  that  I  should  die, 
Than  his  prediction  prove  a  lie. 
Not  one  foretells  I  shall  recover, 
But  all  agree  to  give  me  over. 


782 


THACKERAY, 


Yet,  should  some  neighbor  feel  a 
pain 
Just  in  the  parts  where  I  complain , 
How  many  a  message  would  he  send? 
What  hearty  prayers  that  I  should 

mend ! 
Inquire  what  regimen  I  kept  ? 
What  gave  me  ease,  and  how  I  slept  ? 
And  more  lament  when  I  was  dead. 
Than  all  the  snivellers  roimd  my  bed. 

My  good  companions,  never  fear; 
For,  though  you  may  mistake  a  year, 
Though  your  prognostics  run  too  fast. 
They  must  be  verified  at  last. 

Behold  the  fatal  day  arrive ! 
How  is  the  dean  ?  he's  just  alive. 
Now  the  departing  prayer  is  read ; 
He  hardly  breathes.     The  dean    is 
dead. 


Before  the  passing-bell  begun. 

The  news  through  half  the  town  has 
run; 

^'Oh!  may  we  all  for  death  pre- 
pare! 

What  has  he  left  ?  and  who's  the 
heir?" 

I  know  no  more  than  what  the 
news  is; 

'Tis  all  bequeathed  to  public  uses. 

"  To  public  uses!  there's  a  whim! 

What  had  the  public  done  for  him  ? 

Mere  envy,  avarice,  and  pride: 

He  gave  it  all  —  but  first  he  died. 

And  had  the  dean  in  all  the  nation 

No  worthy  friend,  no  poor  rela- 
tion ? 

So  ready  to  do  strangers  good, 

Forgetting  his  own  flesh  and  blood ! " 


William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 

A  STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous. 
For  which  no  rhyme  our  language 
yields, 
Eue  Neuve  des  Petits   Champs   its 
name  is  — 
The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields ; 
And  there's  an  inn,   not    rich  and 
splendid. 
But  still  in  comfortable  case  — 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended. 
To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is  — 

A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew. 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes. 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo ; 
Green  herbs,   red  peppers,  muscles, 
saffern. 

Soles,   onions,   garlic,   roach,   and 
dace ; 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terra's  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savory  stew  't  is; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks. 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good 
drinks. 


And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 
Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace. 

Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting, 
Which  served  him  up  a  Bouilla- 
baisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is  as  before ; 
The  smiling,  red-cheeked  ecaillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace ; 
He'd  come  and  smile   before  your 
table. 

And  hoped  you  liked  your  Bouilla- 
baisse. 

We  enter;  nothing's  changed  or  older. 
"How's  Monsieur  Terre,   waiter, 
pray  ?" 
The  waiter    stares    and    shrugs  his 
shoulder ;  — 
"Monsieur    is  dead  this  many  a 
day.'' 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terre's  run  his  race! " 
"What  will  Monsieur  require  for  din- 
ner?'- 
"Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouilla- 
baisse ?  " 


THACKERAY, 


783 


"Oh,  oui.  Monsieur,"  's  the  waiter's 
answer; 
"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ?  " 
"Tell  me  a  good  one."     "That  I 
can,  sir; 
The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal.  ' 
*'  So  Terre's  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustomed  corner-place; 
"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  with 
drinking. 
With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustomed  corner  here  is  — 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook; 
All !  vanished  many  a  busy  year  is, 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I 
took. 
When  first  1  saw  ye.  Car  a  Lvoc/hi, 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face. 
And  now  a  grizzled  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  ^^■ait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  tnisty 

Of  early  days,  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter!  quick,  a  flagon  crusty, 
I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old 
wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 
My  memory  can  quick  retrace ; 
Around   the  board  they  take  their 
places, 
And  share  the  wine  and  Bouilla- 
baisse. 

There's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous 
marriage ; 
Tliere's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing 
yet; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives    his 
carriage ; 
There's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Ga- 
zette ; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing: 
Good  Lord !  the  world  has  wagged 
apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  claret  flowing, 
And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouilla- 
baisse. 

Ah  me!  how  quick  the  days  are  flit- 
ting! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone. 
When  here  I'd  sit  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place  —  but  not  alone. 


A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near 
me, 
A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 
And  sweetly  spoke  and   smiled   to 
cheer  me. 
—  There's  no  one  now  to  share  my 
cup. 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 
Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with 
rhymes; 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal 
is; 
And  sit  you  down  and  say  your 
grace 
With  thankful    heart  whate'er    the 
meal  is. 
Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouilla- 
baisse ! 


SORROWS  OF   WERTHER. 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady. 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled. 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out. 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 

Like  a  well-conducted  person. 
Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


LITTLE  BILLEE. 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol 
City 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 
But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  bisi 
cults. 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 


784 


THBALE. 


There  was  gorging  Jack,  and  guzzling 
Jimmy, 
And  the  yoimgest    he  was    little 
Billee. 
Now  when  they'd  got  as  far  as  the 
Equator, 
They'd  nothing  left  but  one  split 
pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"I  am  extremely  hungaree." 

To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat 
we." 

Says  gorgmg  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"With  one  another  we  shouldn't 
agree ! 
There's  little  Bill,  he's  young  and 
tender, 
We're  old  and  tough,  so  let's  eat 
he." 

"  O  Billy!  we're  going  to  kill  and  eat 
you. 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  che- 
niie." 
When  Bill  received  this  information. 
He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 


"  First  let  me  say  my  catechism. 
Which  my  poor  mother  taught  to 
me." 
"Make  haste!    make  haste!"    says 
guzzling  Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snicker- 
snee. 

Billee  went  up  to  the  main-top-gallant 
mast. 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended 
knee. 
He  scarce  had  come  to  the  Twelfth 
Commandment 
When  up    he    jumps  —  "  There's 
land  I  see!" 

"  Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 
And  North  and  South  Amerikee, 

There's  the  British  flag  a  riding  at 
anchor, 
With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  C.  B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Ad- 
miral's, 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged 
Jimmee 
But  as  for  little  Bill,  he  made  him 
The  captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 


Hester  L.  Thrale  (Piozzi). 


THE   THREE    WARNINGS. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground  ; 
'Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages. 
That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  later  stages. 
When  pains  grow  sharp  and  sickness 

rages. 
The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
This  great  affection  to  believe, 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail, 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 
When    sports  went    round    and  all 

were  gay, 
On  neighbor  Dodson's  wedding-day. 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room. 


And,   looking  grave,    "You  must," 

says  he, 
"  Quit  your  sweet   bride,  and  come 

with  me.  " 
"  With  you !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side? 
With  you!"    the    hapless    husband 

cried ; 
"  Young  as  I  am,  't  is  monstrous 

hard! 
Besides,  in  truth,  I'm  not  prepared: 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go ; 
This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know. " 

What  more  he  urged  I  have    not 
heard, 
His    reasons    could    not    well    be 
stronger; 
So  Death  the  poor  delinquent  spared, 
And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 


THRALE. 


789 


Yet  calling  up  a  serious  look, 

His    hour-glass    trembled  while    he 

spoke  — 
"Neighbor,"  he  said,  "farewell I  no 

more  [hour; 

Shall  Death    disturb  your  mirthful 
And  further,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name. 
To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 
And  tit  you  for  your  future  station, 
Three    several    warnings  you    shall 

have. 
Before  you're  summoned  to  the  grave ; 
Willing  for  once  I'll  quit  my  prey, 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve. 
In  hopes  you'll  have  no  more  to  say, 
But  when  I  call  again  this  way. 
Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented, 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 
How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how 

well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 
And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked 
his  horse. 
The  willing  muse  shall  tell : 
He  chaffered  then,  he  bought  and 

sold, 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  death  as  near : 
His  friends  not  false,   his  wife  no 

slirew. 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 
But    while    he    viewed    his    wealth 

increase. 
While  thus  along  life's  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod. 
Old    time,  whose  haste    no   mortal 

spares, 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares. 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  all  alone  he  sate. 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 
Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half  killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 
*' So  soon   returned!"  old  Dodson 

cries. 
"So    soon,    d'ye  call    it  I"    Death 

replies ; 


"Surely,  my  friend,  you're  but  in 
jest! 

Since  I  was  here  before 
'T  is  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore.  " 

"So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown 

rejoined ; 
"  To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind; 
However,  see  your  search  be  Isgal ; 
And  your  authority,  — is  't  regal  ? 
Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand, 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant. 
Beside,    you     promised    me     three 

warnings, 
Which  I  have  looked  for  nights  and 

mornings ; 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease 
I  can  recover  damages.  " 

"I  know,"  cries  Death,  "that  at 

the  best 
I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  don't    be  captious,  friend,  at 

least : 
I  little  thought  you'd  still  be  able 
To    stump    about  your    farms  and 

stable : 
Your  years    have   run  to  a  great 

length ; 
I  wish  you    joy,    though,  of  your 

strength!" 

"Hold,"  says  the  farmer,  "not  so 
fast! 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  years 
past!" 
"And  no    great  wonder,"  Death 
replies : 
"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes; 
And    sure,   to  see  one's  loves  and 

friends 
For    legs    and    arms  would    make 
amends. " 
"Perhaps,"  says  Dodson,  "so  it 
might, 
But  latterly  I've  lost  my  sight.  " 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  't  is  true; 
But  still  there's  comfort  left  for  you: 
Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse ; 
I  waiTant  you  hear  all  the  news." 
"There's  none,"  cries  he;  "and 
if  there  were, 
I'm  grown  so  deaf,  I  could  not  hear.  " 


786 


TROWBRIDGE. 


"Nay,   then,"   the    spectre    stern 

rejoined, 
*'  These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings: 
If  you  are  lame  and  deaf  and  blind. 
You've    had  your    three    sufficient 

warnings ; 


So  come  along,  no  more  we'll  part.  " 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his 

dart. 
And  now,  old  Dodson,  turning  pale, 
Yields  to   his    fate,  —  so   ends    my 

tale. 


John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


THE   VAGABONDS. 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 
Roger's  my  dog. — Come  here,  you 
scamyj ! 
Jump  for  the  gentleman, — mind  your 
eye! 
Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the 
lamp ! 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old ; 
Five  years  we've  tramped  through 
wind  and  weather. 
And    slept    out-doors  when    nights 
were  cold, 
And  eat  and  drank — and  starved — 
together. 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell 
you! 
A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow ! 
The  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been 
frozen). 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for 
strings). 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from 
the  griddle. 
And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings ! 

No,  thank  ye,  sir,  —  I  never  drink ; 

Rogerand  lareexceedinglyraoral, — 
Aren't  we,  Roger  ? — See  him  wink !  — 
Well,    something  hot,   then — we 
won't  quarrel. 
He's  thirsty,  too,  — see  him  nod  his 
head? 
What  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can't 
talk! 
He  understands  every  word    that's 
said. 
And  he    knows    good  milk  from 
water-and-chalk. 


The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I've  not  lost  the  respect 
(Here's  to  you,  sir!)  even  of  my 
dog. 
But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and 
thin  ; 
And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty 
pockets. 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and 
gin. 
He'll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in 
his  sockets. 

There  isn't  another  creature  living 
Would  do  it,   and  prove,  through 
every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 
To  such  a    miserable,    thankless 
master ! 
No,  sir !  —  see  him  wag  his  tail  and 
grin! 
By  George !  it  makes  my  old  eyes 
water ! 
That  is,  there's  something  in  this  gin 
That    chokes  a    fellow.     But    no 
matter ! 

We'll  have  some  music,   if    you're 
willing. 
And  Roger  (hem!  what  a  plague  a 
cough  is,  sir ! ) 
Shall    march   a    little  —  Start,    you 
villain ! 
Paws  up !  Eyes  front !  Salute  your 
officer ! 
'Bout  face!   Attention!    Take  your 
rifle ! 
(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see!) 
Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentleman  gives  a  trifle, 
To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier ! 


TROWBRIDGE. 


787 


Marcli'  Halt!     Now  show  how  the 
rebel  shakes 
When  he   stands  up  to  hear  his 
sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 
To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  —  that's  tive ;  he's  mighty 
knowing ! 
The    night's    before    us,    fill  the 
glasses ! 
Quick,'  sir'    I'm  ill,  —  my  brain  is 
going!  — 
Some  brandy,— thank  you,— there ! 
it  passes ! 

Why  not  reform  ?    That's  easy  said ; 

But     I've    gone     tln-ough     such 

wretched  treatment,      [bread. 

Sometimes    forgetting  the  taste    of 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat 

meant. 

That  my  poor  stomach's  past  reform; 

And  there  are  times  when,   mad 

with  thinking, 

I'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  thmk  ? 
At  your  age,   sir,  home,  fortune, 
friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love,  — but  I  took  to 
drink  ;  — 
The  same  old    story;    you    know 
how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic 
features,  — 
You  needn't  laugh,  sir;  they  were 
not  then 
Such    a    burning    libel     on     God's 
creatures  : 
I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men ! 

If  you  had  seen  her,   so  fair  and 
young. 
Whose   head  was  happy  on  this 
breast !  f  sung 

If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  1 
When  the  wine  went  round,  you 
wouldn't  have  guessed 
That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 
From  door  to  door  with  fiddle  and 
dog, 
Eagged  and  penniless,  and  playing 
To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog  1 


She's  married  since, — a  parson's  wife ; 
'Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should 
part,  — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life, 
Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken 
heart. 
I  have  seen  her  ?    Once :  I  was  weak 
and  spent 
On    the    dusty    road:  a   carriage 
stopped : 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she 
went. 
Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fin- 
gers dropped ! 

You've    set   me   talking,    sir;    I'm 
sorry ;  [change 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 
Is  it  amusing '?  you  find  it  strange  ? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me ! 
'Twas  well  she  died  before  — Do 
you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 
The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here 
below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 
This  pain ;  then  Roger  and  I  will 
start. 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish, 
leaden. 
Aching  thing  in  place  of  a  heart  ? 
He  is  sad    sometimes,    and   would 
weep,  if  he  could. 
No  doubt,  remembering  things  that 
were, 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of 
food,  [cur. 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable 

I'm  better  now;  that  glass  was  warm- 
ing. 
You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 
For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in 
the  street. 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think? 
But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodg- 
ings are  free. 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals 
nor  drink; 
The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger 
and  me ! 


788 


TROWBRIDGE. 


DARIUS  GREEN. 

If  ever  there  lived  a  Yankee  lad, 
Wise  or  otherwise,  good  or  bad. 
Who,  seeing  the  birds  fly,  didn't  jump 
With  flapping  arms   from   stake   c 
stump. 
Or,  spreading  the  tail 
Of  his  coat  for  a  sail, 
Take  a  soarmg  leap  from  post  or  rail 
And  wonder  why- 
lire  couldn't  fly, 
And  flap  and  flutter   and  wish  and 

try  — 
If  ever  you  knew  a  country  dunce 
Who  didn't  try  that  as  often  as  once, 
All  I  can  say  is,  that's  a  sign 
He  never  would  do  for  a  hero  of  mine. 

An  aspiring  genius  was  D.  Green : 
The  son  of  a  farmer,  — age  fourteen : 
His  body  was  long  and  lank    and 

lean,  — 
Just  right  for  flying,  as  will  be  seen ; 
He  had  two  eyes  as  bright  as  a  bean. 
And  a  freckled  nose  that  grew  be- 
tween, 
A  little  awry,  —  for  I  must  mention 
That  he  had  riveted  his  attention 
Upon  his  wonderful  invention. 
Twisting  his  tongue  as  he  twisted  the 

strings 
And  working  his  face  as  he  worked 

the  wings. 
And  with  every  turn  of  gimlet  and 

screw 
Turning    and    screwing   his    mouth 

round  too, 
Till  his  nose  seemed  bent 
To  catch  the  scent, 
Around  some  corner,  of  new-baked 

pies. 
And  his  wrinkled  cheeks  and    his 

squinting  eyes 
Grew  puckered  kito  a  queer  grimace, 
That  made  him  look  very  droll  in  the 

face. 
And  also  very  wise. 

And  wise  he  must  have  been,  to  do 

more 
Than  ever  a  genius  did  before. 
Excepting  Daedalus  of  yore 
And  his  son  Icarus,  who  wore 


Upon  their  backs 

Those  wings  of  wax 
He  had  read  of  in  the  old  almanacs. 
Darius  was  clearly  of  the  opinion 
That  the  air  was  also  man's  dominion, 
And   that,  with    paddle    or   tin   or 
pinion. 

We  soon  or  late 

Should  navigate 
The  azure  as  now  we  sail  the  sea. 
The  thing  looks  simple  enough  to  me; 

And  if  you  doubt  it, 
Hear  how  Darius  reasoned  about  it. 

**The  birds  can  fly, 

An'  why  can't  I? 

Must  we  give  in," 

Says  he  with  a  grin, 

"  'T  the  bluebird  an'  phoebe 

Are  smarter' n  we  be  ? 
Jest  fold  our  hands  an'  see  the  swaller 
An'   blackbird  an'   catbird    beat  us 
holler  ? 

Does  the  leetle  chatterin' ,  sassy  wren. 
No  bigger' n  my  thumb,  know  more 
than  men  ? 
Jest  show  me  that! 
Er  prove  't  the  bat 
Hez  got  more  brains  than's  in  my  hat. 
An'    ni  back    down,     an'    not  till 
then  !  " 

He  argued  further:  "  Ner  I  can't  see 
What's  th'  use  of  wings  to  a  bumble- 
bee, 
Fer  to  get  a  livin'  with,  more'n  to 
me;  — 
Ain't  my  business 
Importanter'n  his'n  is  ? 

"That  Icarus 
Was  a  silly  cuss, — 
Him  an'  his  daddy  Dsedalus. 
They  might  'a'  knowed  wings  made 

o'  wax 
Wouldn't    stand  sun-heat  an'  hard 
whacks. 
I'll  make  mine  o'  luther, 
Er  suthin  er  other." 

And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tin- 
kered and  planned : 
"But  I  ain't  goin'  to  show  my  hand 


TROWBRIDGE. 


789 


To  nummies  that  never  can  under- 
stand 

The  fust  idee  that's  big  an'  grand. 
They'd  'a'laft  an'  made  fun 

O'  Creation  itself  afore  't  was  done ! " 

So  he  kept  his  secret  from  all  the  rest, 

Safely  buttoned  within  his  vest; 

And  in  the  loft  above  the  shed 

Himself  he  locks,  with  thimble  and 
thread 

And  wax  and  hammer  and  buckles 
and  screws, 

And  all  such  things  as  geniuses  use ; — 

Two  bats    for  patterns,  curious  fel- 
lows ! 

A  charcoal-pot  and  a  pair  of  bellows; 

An  old  hoop-skirt  or  two,  as  well  as 

Some  wire,  and  several  old  umbrellas ; 

A  carriage-cover,  for  tail  and  wings; 

A  piece  of  harness ;  and  straps  and 
strings ; 
And  a  big  strong  box, 
In  which  he  locks 

These  and  a  hundred  other  things. 

His  grinning  brothers,  Reuben  and 

Burke 
And  Nathan  and  Jotham  and  Solo- 
mon, lurk 
Around  the  corner  to  see  him  work, — 
Sitting  cross-legged,  like  a  Turk, 
Drawing  the  waxed-end  through  with 

a  jerk. 
And  boring  the  holes  with  a  comical 

quirk 
Of  his  wise  old  head,  and  a  knowing 

smirk. 
But  vainly  they  mounted  each  other's 

backs. 
And  poked  through  knot-holes  and 

pried  through  cracks; 
With  wood  from  the  pile  and  straw 

from  the  stacks 
He  plugged  the  knot-holes  and  calked 

the  cracks ; 

bucket  of  V 

would  think 
He  had  brought  up  into  the  loft  to 

drink 
When  he  chanced  to  be  dry. 
Stood  always  nigh, 
For  Darius  was  sly ! 
And  whenever  at  work  he  happened 

to  spy 


At  chink  or  crevice  a  blinking  eye, 
He  let  a  dipper  of  water  fly. 
"  Take  that!  an'  ef  ever  ye  git  a  peep, 
Guess  ye' 11  ketch  a  weasel  asleep!" 

And  he  sings  as  he  locks 

His  big  strong  box :  — 


"  The  weasel's  head  is  small  an'  trim, 
An'  he  is  leetle  an'  long  an'  slim. 
An'  quick  of  motion  an'  nimble  of 
limb. 
An'  ef  yeou'll  be 
Advised  by  me, 
Keep  wide  awake  when  ye're  ketch  in' 
him!" 

So  day  after  day 
He  stitched  and  tinkered  and  ham- 
mered away. 
Till  at  last  'twas  done,  — 
The  greatest    invention   under    the 

sun! 
"An'  now,"  says  Darius,  "hooray 
fersome  fun!" 

'Twas  the  Fourth  of  July, 
And  the  weather  was  dry, 
And  not  a  cloud  was  on  all  the  sky, 
Save  a  few  light  fleeces,  which  here 
and  there, 
Half  mist,  half  air. 
Like  foam  on  the  ocean  went  float- 
ing by: 
Just  as  lovely  a  morning  as  ever  was 

seen 
For  a  nice  little  trip  in  a  flying-ma- 
chine. 

Thought  cunning  Darius  :  "  Now  I 

shan't  go 
Along  'ith  the  fellers  to  see  the  show. 
I'll  say  I've  got  sich  a  terrible  cough ! 
An'  then,  when  the  folks  'ave  all 
gone  ofif, 
I'll  hev  full  swing 
Fer  to  try  the  thing, 
An'  practyse  a  leetle  on  the  wing." 

"Ain't  goin'  to  see  the  celebration?  " 
Says  Brother  Nate.  "No;  bothera- 
tion! 
I've  got  sich  a  cold — a  toothache — I — 
My  gracious! — feel's  though  I  should 
fly!" 


790 


TROWBRIDGE, 


Said  Jotham,  '*Sho! 
Guess  ye  better  go." 
But  Darius  said,  ' '  No  I 
Shouldn't  wonder  'f  yeou  might  see 

me,  though, 
'Long  'bout  noon,  ef  I  git  red 
O'  this  jumpin',  thumpin'  pain  'n  my 

liead." 
For  all  the  while  to  himself  he  said : — 

"Itell  ye  what! 
I'll  fly  a  few  times  around  the  lot. 
To  see  how  't  seems,  then  soon  's  I've 

got 
The  hang  o'  the  thing,  ez  likely' s  not, 
I'll  astonish  the" nation, 
An'  all  creation. 
By  flyin'  over  the  celebration ! 
Over  their   heads  I'll   sail  like  an 

eagle ; 
I'll  balance  myself  on  my  wings  like 

a  sea-gull ; 
I'll  dance  on  the  chimbleys;  I'll  stan' 

on  the  steeple ; 
I'll  flop  up  to  winders  an'  scare  the 

people ! 
I'll    light   on  the  libbe'ty-pole,  an' 

crow; 
An'   I'll    say   to  the  gawpin'  fools 
below, 
*  What  world's  this  'ere 
That  I've  come  so  near  ? ' 
Fer  I'll  make  'em  b'lieve  I'm  a  chap 

f'm  the  moon; 
An'  I'll  try  a  race  'ith  their  ol'  bal- 
loon!" 

He  crept  from  his  bed ; 
And,  seeing  the  others  were  gone,  he 

said, 
"I'm  a-gittin'  over  the  cold'n    my 
head." 
And  away  he  sped, 
To  open  the  wonderful  box  in  the 
shed. 

His  brothers  had  walked  but  a  little 

way 
When  Jotham  to  ^N'athan  chanced  to 

say, 
'*  What  on  airth  is  he  up  to,  hey  ?  " 
"Don'o' — the's  suthin' er  other  to 

pay, 
Er  he  wouldn't  'a' stayed  to  hum  to- 
day." 


Says  Burke,  "His  toothache's  all'n 

his  eye ! 
He  never'd  miss  a  Fo'th-o'-July, 
Ef  he  hedn't  got  some  machine  to 

try." 
Then  Sol,  the  little  one,  spoke:  "  By 

darn! 
Le's  hurry  back  an'  hide'n  the  bam, 
An'  pay  him  fer  tellin'  us  that  yam ! " 
"Agreed!"      Through  the  orchard 

they  creep  back, 
Along    by  the  fences,    behind    the 

stack, 
And  one  by  one,  through  a  hole  in 

the  wall, 
In  under  the  dusty  barn  they  crawl, 
Dressed  in   their  Sunday  garments 

all; 
And  a  very    astonishing  sight  was 

that, 
When  each   in  his  cobwebbed  coat 

and  hat 
Came  up  through  the  floor  like  an 

ancient  rat. 
And  there  they  hid ; 
And  Reuben  slid 
The  fastenings  back,   and  the  door 

undid. 
"  Keep  dark!  said  he, 
"  While  I  squint  an'  see  what  the'  is 

to  see." 

As  knights  of  old  put  on  their  mail, — 

From  head  to  foot 

An  iron  suit. 
Iron  jacket  and  iron  boot, 
Iron  breeches,  and  on  the  head 
No  hat,  but  an  iron  pot  instead, 

And  under  the  chin  the  bail, — 
I  believe  they  called  the  thing  a  helm: 
And  the  lid  they  carried  they  called 

a  shield ; 
And,  thus  accoutred,  they  took  the 

field, 
Sallying  forth  to  overwhelm 
The  dragons  and  pagans  that  plagued 
the  realm:  — 

So  this  modem  knight 
Prepared  for  fight. 
Put  on  his  wings  and  strapped  them 

tight; 
Jointed    and    jaunty,    strong    and 
light: 


TROWBRIDGE, 


791 


Buckled  tbem  fast  to  shoulder  and 

hip,— 
Ten  feet  they  measured  from  tip  to 

tip  I 
And  a  helm  had  he,  but  that  he  wore 
Not  on  his  head  like  those  of  yore, 
But  more  like  the  helm  of  a  ship. 

"Hush!"  Reuben  said, 
"  He's  up  in  the  shed! 
He's  opened  the  winder,  —  I  see  his 

head ! 
He  stretches  it  out, 
An'  pokes  it  about, 
Lookin'  to  see  if  the  coast  is  clear. 

An'  nobody  near;  — 
Guess  he  don'o'  who's  hid  in  here! 
He's  riggin'  a  spring-board  over  the 

sill! 
Stop  laffiu'   Solomon!  Burke,  keep 

still! 
He's  a  climin'  out  now.     Of  all  the 

things ! 
Wat's  he  got  on?   I  van,  it's  wings! 
And  that  'tother  thing?    I  vura,  it's 

a  tail! 
An'  there  he  sets  like  a  hawk  on  a 

rail! 
Steppin'  careful,  he  travels  the  length 
Of  his  spring-board,  and  teeters  to 

tiy  its  strength. 
Now  he  stretches  his  wings,  like  a 

monstrous  bat; 
Peeks  over  his  shoulder,  this  way  an' 

that, 
Fer  to  see  'f  tlie's  any  one  passin'  by; 
But  the's  on'y  a  ca'f  an'  a  goslin 

nigh. 
They  turn  up  at  him  a  wonderin' 

eye, 
To  see  —  The  dragon?  he's  goin'  to 

fly! 
Away  he  goes!    Jimrainy  !  what  a 

jump ! 
Flop  —  flop  —  an'  plump 
To  the  ground  with  a  thump ! 
Flutt'rin'    an'     flound'rin,    all'n   a 

lump!" 


As  a  demon  is  hurled  by  an  angel's 

spear 
Heels    over     head,    to   his   proper 

sphere, 
Heels  over  head,  and  head  over  heels. 
Dizzily  down  the  abyss  he  wheels. 
So  fell  Darius.     Upon  his  crown, 
In  the  midst  of    the  barn-yard  he 

came  down. 
In    a  wonderful  whirl    of   tangled 

strings. 
Broken  braces  and  broken  springs. 
Broken  tail  and  broken  wings, 
Shooting  stars,  and  various  things. 
Barn-yard  litter  of  straw  and  chaff. 
And  much  that  wasn't  so  sweet  by 

half. 
Away  with  a  bellow  fled  the  calf. 
And  what  was  that?  Did  the  gosling 

laugh? 
'Tis  a  merry  roar 
From  the  old  barn-door. 
And  he  hears  the  voice  of  Jotham 

crying, 
"Say,  D'rius!    how   de   yeou  like 

flyin'  ?  " 

Slowly,  ruefully,  where  he  lay, 
Darius  just  turned  and  looked  that 

way, 
As  he  stanched  his  sorrowful  nose 

with  his  cuff. 
"  Wal,  I  like  flyin'  well  enough," 
He  said;    "but    the'    ain't    such  a 

thunderin'  sight 
O'  fun  in't  when  ye  come  to  light." 


I  have  just  room  for  the  moral  here; 
And  this  is  the  moral :  Stick  to  your 

sphere. 
Or  if  you  insist,  as  you  have  the 

right. 
On  spreading  your  wings  for  a  loftier 

flight, 
The  meral  is,  —  Take  care  how  you 

light. 


792 


JOHN  WOLCOT  {PETER  PINDAR). 


John  Wolcot  (Peter  Pindar). 


THE  BAZOR-SELLER. 

A  FELiiOW  in  a  market  town, 

Most  musical,  cried  razors  up  and 

down, 
And  offered  twelve  for  eighteen- 

pence ; 
Which    certainly  seemed  wondrous 

cheap, 
And  for  the  money  quite  a  heap. 
As    every  man  would    buy,  with 

cash  and  sense. 

A  country  bumpkin  the  great  offer 

heard ; 
Poor  Hodge,  who  suffered  by  a  broad 

black  beard. 
That  seemed    a  shoe-brush   stuck 

beneath  his  nose: 
With  cheerfulness  the  eighteen-pence 

he  paid, 
And  proudly  to  himself  in  whispers, 

said, 
*'  This    rascal     stole    the  razors,   I 

suppose. 

*'  No  matter  if  the  fellow  he  a  knave, 
Provided  that  the  razors  shave; 
It  certainly  will  be  a  monstrous 
prize.  " 
So  home  the  clown,  with  his  good 

fortune,  went, 
Smiling  in  heart  and  soUl,  content. 
And  quickly  soaped  himself  to  ears 
and  eyes. 

Being  well  lathered  from  a  dish  or  tub, 
Hodge  now  began  with  grinning  pain 

to  grub. 
Just  like  a  hedger  cutting  furze: 
'Twas  a  vile  razor!  —  then    the  rest 

he  tried  — 
All  were  impostors  — ''  Ah!  "  Hodge 

sighed, 
I  wish  my  eighteen-pence  within 

my  purse." 


Hodge    sought    the   fellow  —  found 
him  —  and  begun : 


"P'rhaps,  Master    Razor-rogue,    to 

you  'tis  fun. 
That  people  flay  themselves  out  of 

their  lives : 
You  rascal !  for  an  hour  have  I  been 

grubbing. 
Giving  my  crying  whiskers  here  a 

scrubbing. 
With  razors  just  like  oyster-knives. 
Sirrah!  I  tell  you,  you're  a  knave, 
To  cry  up  razors  that  can't  shave.  " 

"Friend,"    quoth     the    razor-man, 
"I'm  not  a  knave: 
As  for  the  razors  you  have  bought, 
Upon  my  soul  I  never  thought 
That  they  would  shave.  " 
"Not  think  they'd  shave!  ^^   quoth 
Hodge,with  wondering  eyes, 
And  voice  not    much  unlike   an 
Indian  yell ; 
"  What  were  they  made  for  then,  you 
dog?'*  he  cries; 
"  Made!"  quoth  the  fellow,  with  a 
smile,  —  "to  sell" 


THE  PILGRIMS  AXD   THE  PEAS. 

A  BRACE  of  sinners,  for  no  good, 
Were     ordered      to     the    Virgin 
Mary's  shrine, 
Who  at  Loretto  dwelt  in  wax,  stone, 
wood, 
And  in  a  curled  white  wig  looked 
wondrous  fine. 

Fifty  long  miles  had  these  sad  rogues 

to  travel, 
With  something  in  their  shoes  much 

worse  than  gravel : 
In    short,   their  toes  so    gentle    to 

amuse. 
The  priest    had  ordered  peas  into 

their  shoes: 
A  nostrum    famous  in  old    popish 

times 
For    purifying  souls  deep  sunk   in 

crimes : 


ANONYMOUS, 


793 


A  sort  of  apostolic  salt, 

That  popish  parsons  for  its  powers 
exalt, 
For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet, 
Just  as  our  kitchen  salt  keeps  meat. 

The  knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day, 
Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray ; 
But  vei-y  different  was  their  speed, 
I  wot: 
One  of  the  sinners  galloped  on. 
Light  as  a  bullet  from  a  gun ; 
The  other  limped  as  if  he  had  been 
shot. 
One  saw  the  Virgin,  soon  — peccavi 
cried  — 
Had  his   soul  whitewashed  all  so 
clever; 
When  home  again  he  nimbly  hied, 
Made  fit  with  saints  above  to  live 
for  ever. 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me 
say. 

He  met  his  brother  rogue  about  half- 
way — 

Hobbling  Avith  outstretched  hands 
and  bending  knees. 

Cursing  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the 
peas : 

His  eyes  in  tears,  his  cheeks  and 
brows  in  sweat, 


Deep  sympathizing  with  his  groaning 
feet. 

"How  now!"  the  light-toed  white- 
washed pilgrim  broke, 
"You  lazy  lubber!" 
"  You  see  it ! "  cried  the  other,  "  'tis 

no  joke ; 
My  feet  once  hard  as  any  rock, 
Are  now  as  soft  as  blubber. 

"  But,  brother  sinner,  do  explain 
How  'tis  that  you  are  not  in  pain  — 
What  power  hath  work'd  a  wonder 

for  your  toes  — 
Whilst    I,    just    like    a    snail,    am 

crawling 
Now     groaning,      now    on     saints 

devoutly  bawling, 
"Whilst  not  a  rascal  comes  to  ease  my 

woes? 

"How  is' t  that  you  can  like  a  grey- 
hound go, 
Merry  as  if  nought  had  happened, 
burn  ye?" 
"Why,"  cried  the  other,  grinning, 
"you  must  know. 
That  just  before  I  ventured  on  my 
journey. 
To  walk  a  little  more  at  ease, 
/  took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  peas  1 " 


Anonymous. 


THE  EGGS  AND  THE  HORSES. 
A  MATRIMONIAL  EPIC. 

John  Dobbins  was  so  captivated 
By  Mary  Trueman's  fortune,  face, 

and  cap, 
(With  near  two  thousand  pounds 

the  hook  was  baited). 
That  in  he  popped  to  matrimony's 

trap. 

One  small  ingredient  towards  happi- 
ness. 

It  seems  ne'er  occupied  a  single 
thought ; 


For  his  accomplished  bride 
Appearing  well  supplied 
With  the   three  charms  of   riches, 
beauty,  dress. 
He  did  not,  as  he  ought. 
Think  of  aught  else;  so  no  in- 
quiry made  he 
As  to  the  temper  of  his  lady. 

And  here  was  certainly  a  great  omis- 
sion; 

None  should  accept  of  Hymen's  gentle 
fetter, 
"  For  worse  or  better,"        [tion, 

Whatever  be  their  prospect  or  condi- 


794 


ANONYMOUS. 


Without    acquaintance    with    each 

As  it  has  been 

otlier's  nature; 

My  lot  to  see,  I  think  you'll  own  youi 

For  many  a  mild  and  quiet  crea- 

wife 

ture 

As  good  or  better  than  the  generaUty. 

Of  charming  disposition, 

Alas!  by  thoughtless  marriage  has 

An  interest  in   your  case   I  really 

destroyed  it. 

take, 

So  take  advice;  let  girls  dress  e'er  so 

And  therefore  gladly  this  agreement 

tastily, 

make: 

Don't  enter  into  wedlock  hastily 

An  hundred  eggs  within  the  basket 

Unless  you  can't  avoid  it. 

he. 

With  which  your  luck,  to-morrow. 

Week  followed  week,  and  it  must 

you  shall  try; 

be  confest, 

Also  my  five  best  horses,  with  my 

The  bridegroom  and  the  bride  had 

cart ; 

both  been  blest; 

And  from  the  farm  at  dawn  you  shall 

Month  after  month  had  languidly 

depart. 

transpired, 

All  round  the  countiy  go, 

Both  parties  became  tired : 

And  be  particular,  1  beg; 

Year  after  year  dragged  on ; 

Where  husbands  rule,  a  licrse  be- 

Their happiness  was  gone. 

stow, 

But  where  the  wives,  an  egg. 

Ah!  foolish  pair! 

And  if    the    horses    go   before    the 

*'  Bear  and  forbear" 

eggs, 

Should  be  the  rule  for  married  folks 

I'll  ease  you  of  your  wife,  —  I  will,  — 

to  take. 

I'fegs!" 

But  blind  mankind  (poor  discon- 

tented elves) ! 

Away  the  married  man  departed 

Too  often  make 

Brisk  and  light-hearted: 

The  misery  of  themselves. 

Not  doubting  that,  of  course. 

The  first  five  houses  each  would  take 

At  length  the  husband  said,  "  This 

a  horse. 

will  not  do ! 

At  the  first  house  he  knocked. 

Mary,  I  never  will  be  ruled  by  you; 

He  felt  a  little  shocked 

So,  wife,  d'  ye  see  ? 

To  hear  a  female  voice,  with  angry 

To  live  together  as  we  can't  agree, 

roar. 

Suppose  we  part!" 

Scream  out, —  " Hullo! 

With  woman's  pride, 

Who's  there  below  ? 

Mary  replied. 

Why,  husband,  are  you  deaf?  go  to 

"With  all  my  heart!" 

the  door. 

See  who  it  is,  I  beg." 

John  Dobbins  then  to  Mary's  father 

Our  poor  friend  John 

goes, 

Trudged  quickly  on, 

And  gives  the  list  of  his  imagined 

But  first  laid  at  the  door  an  egg. 

woes. 

I  will  not  all  his  journey  through 

"  Dear  son-in-law ! "  the  father  said. 

The  discontented    traveller  pursue; 

''  I  see 

Suffice  it  here  to  say 

All  is  quite  true  that  you've  been 

That  when  his  first  day's  task  was 

telling  me; 

nearly  done. 

Yet  there  in  marriage  is  such  strange 

He'd    seen   an    hundred    husbands, 

fatality, 

minus  one. 

That  when  as  much  of  life 

And  eggs  just  ninety-nine  had  given 

You  shall  have  seen 

away. 

ANONYMOUS. 


795 


•'Hal  there's  a  house  where  he  I 
seek  must  dwell," 

At  length  cried  John;  "I'll  go  and 
ring  the  bell." 

The  servant  came,  —  John  asked  him, 
*'Pray, 
Friend,  is  your  master  in    the 
way?" 
"No,"    said   the    man,   with 
smiling  phiz, 
"  My  master  is  not,  but  my  mis- 
tress is; 
Walk    in   that   parlor,  sir,  my 

lady's  in  it: 
Master  will  be  himself  there — in 
a  minute." 
The  lady  said  her  husband  then  was 

dressing, 
And,   if  his  business  was  not  very 

pressing, 
She  would  prefer  that  he  should  wait 
until 
His  toilet  was  completed ; 
Adding,  "Pray,  sir,  be  seated." 
"  Madam,  I  will," 
Said    John,  with   great   politeness; 
"but  I  own 
That  you  alone 
Can  tell  me  all  I  wish  to  know; 
Will  you  do  so  ? 
Pardon  my  rudeness 
And  just  have  the  goodness 
(A  wager  to  decide)  to  tell  me  — 
do  — 
Who  governs  in  this  house,  —  your 
spouse  or  you?" 

"Sir,"   said    the  lady,    with    a 

doubting  nod, 
"  Your  question's  very  odd; 
But  as  I  think  none  ought  to  be 
Ashamed  to  do  their  duty,  do 

you  see  ? 
On  that  account  I  scruple  not  to 

say 
It  always  is  my  pleasure  to  obey. 
But  here's  my  husband  (always 

sad  without  me); 
Take  not  my  word,  but  ask  him, 

if  you  doubt  me." 

''  Sir,"  said  the  husband,  "  't  is  most 
true; 


I  promise  you, 
A  more  obedient,  kind,  and  gentle 
woman 
Does  not  exist." 
"  Give  us  your  fist," 
Said  John,  "  and,  as  the  case  is  some- 
thing more  than  common. 
Allow  me  to  present  you  with  a 

beast 
Worth  fifty  guineas  at  the  very 
least. 

"  There's  Smiler,  sir,  a  beauty,  you 
must  own, 
There's  Prince,  that  handsome 
black, 
Ball  the  gray  mare,  and  Saladin  the 
roan, 
Besides  old  Dunn; 
Come,  sir,  choose  one ; 
But  take  advice  from  me. 
Let  Prince  be  he; 
Why,  sir,  you'll  look  a  hero  on  his 
back." 

"  ril  take  the  black,  and  thank  you 
too." 
"  Nay,  husband,  that  will  never 

do; 
You,  know,  you've  often  heard 

me  say 
How  much  I  long  to  have  a  gray ; 
And  this  one  will  exactly  do  for 
me." 
"No,  no,"  said  he, 
"  Friend,  take  the  four  others 

back. 
And  only  leave  the  black." 
"Nay,  husband,  I  declare 
I  must  have  the  gray  mare; " 
Adding  (with  gentle  force), 
"The  gray  mare  is,  I'm  sure,  the 
better  horse." 

"  Well,  if  it  must  be  so,  —  good  sir, 
The  gray  mare  we  prefer; 

So  we  accept  your  gift."    John  made 
a  leg: 

"  Allow  me  to  present  you  with  an  egg ; 
'Tis  my  last  egg  remaining. 
The  cause  of  my  regaining, 

I  trust  the  fond  affection  of  my  wife, 

Whom  I  will  love  the  better  all  my 
life. 


796 


ANONYMOUS. 


"Home  to  content  has  her  kind 
father  brought  me; 

I  thank  him  for  the  lesson  he  has 
taught  rae." 


DOCTOR  DROLLHEAD'S  CURE. 

Theee  weeks  to  a  day  had  old  Doctor 
Drollhead 
Attended  Miss  Debby  Keepill ; 
Three  weeks  to  a  day  had  she  lain  in 
her  bed 
Defying  his  marvellous  skill. 

She  put  out  her  tongue  for  the  twenty- 
first  time, 
But    it   looked  very  much   as   it 
should ; 
Her  pulse  with  the  doctor's  scarce 
failed  of  a  rhyme, 
As  a  matter  of  course,  it  was  good. 

To-day  has  this  gentleman  happened 
to  see  — 
Yery    strange   he's    not   done    it 
before  — 
That   the   way  to    recovery  simply 
must  be 
Right  out  of  this  same  chamber- 
door. 

So  he  said,  "Leave  your  bed,  dear 
Miss  Keepill,  I  pray; 
Keep  the  powders  and  pills,  if  you 
must, 
But  the  color  of  health  will  not  long 
stay  away 
If  you  exercise  freely,  I  trust." 


"  Why,  doctor!  of  all  things,  when  X 
am  so  weak 
That  scarce  from  my  bed  can  I 
stir. 
Of  color  and  exercise  thus  will  you 
speak  ? 
Of  what  are  you  thinking,  dear 
sir?" 

'•That  a  fright  is  the  cure,  my  good 

lady,  for  you," 

He  said  to  himself  and  the  wall, 

And  to  frighten  her,  what  did  the 

doctor  do, 

But  jump  into  bed,  boots  and  all ! 

And  as  in  jumped  he,  why  then  out 
jumped  she, 
Like  a  hare,  except  for  the  pother, 
And  shockingly  shocked,  pray  who 
wouldn't  be  ? 
Ran,  red  as  a  rose,  to  her  mother. 

Doctor    Drollhead,     meanwhile,    is 
happily  sure, 
Debby  owes  a  long   life  just  to 
him ; 
And  vows  he's  discovered  a  capital 
cure 
For  the  bedrid  when   tied    by  a 
whim. 

At  any  rate,  long,  long  ago  this  oc- 
curred, 
And  Debby  is  not  with  the  dead ; 
But  in  pretty  good  health,  't  may  be 
gently  inferred, 
Since  she  makes   all   the  family 
bread. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


Berkeley  Aiken. 


UNCROWNED  KINGS. 

O  YE  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings ! 
Made  royal  by  the  brain  and  heart ; 
Of  all   earth's   wealth    the   noblest 

part, 
Yet  reckoned  nothing  in  the  mart 
Where  men  know  naught  but  sordid 

things  — 
All  hail  to  you,  most  kingly  kings ! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings ! 
Whose  breath  and  words  of  living 

flame 
Have  waked  slave-nations  from  their 

shame, 
And    bid    them    rise  in  manhood's 

name,  — 
Swift  as  the  curved  bow  backward 

springs  — 
To  follow  you,  most  kingly  kings ! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings ! 
AYhose  strong  right  arm  hath  oft  been 

bared 
Where  fire  of  righteous  battle  glared, 
And  where  all  odds  of    wrong    ye 

dared !  — 
To  think  on  you  the  heart  upsprings, 
O  ye  microwned  but  kingly  kings ! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings ! 
W^hose    burning    songs    like     lava 

poured, 
Have  smitten  like  a  two-edged  sword 
Sent  forth   by    Heaven's    avenging 

Lord 
To  purge  the  earth  where  serfdom 

clings 
To  all  but  you,  O  kingly  kings  I 


O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings  \ 
To  wliose  ecstatic  gaze  alone 
The  beautiful  by  Heaven  is  shown. 
And  who  have  made  it  all  your  own ; 
Your  lavish  hand  around  us  flings 
Earth's    richest    wreaths,    O    noble 
kings! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings ! 
The     heart    leaps    wildly    at    your 

thought; 
And  tlie  brain  fires  as  if  it  caught 
Shreds    of   your   mantle;    ye   have 

fought 
Xot  vainly,  if  your  gloiy  brings 
A  lingering  light  to  earth,  O  kings ! 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings ! 
Whose  souls  on  Marah's  fruit  did  sup, 
And  went  in  .fiery  chariots  up 
When  eacli  liad  drained  his  hemlock 

cup,— 
Ye  priests  of  God,  but  tyrants'  stings. 
Uncrowned  but    still   the   kingliest 

kings ! 


Annie  R.  Annan. 

RECOMPENSE. 

The  summer  coaxed  me  to  be  glad, 
Entreating  with  tlie  primrose  hue 

Of  sunset  skies,  with  downward  calls 
From  viewless  larks,  with  winds 
that  blew 

The  red-tipped  clover's  breast  abroad, 
And  told  the  mirth  of  waterfalls; 

In  vain!    my  heart    would  not    be 
wooed 

From  the  December  of  its  mood. 


'98 


AYTON—BABR. 


But  on  a  day  of  wintiy  skies 
A  withered  rose  slipped  from  my 
book; 

And  as  I  caught  its  faint  perfume 
The  soul  of  summer  straight  forsook 

The  little  tenement  it  loved, 
And    filled  the    world    with  song 
and  bloom, 

Missed,  in  their  season,  by  my  sense, 

So  found  my  heart  its  recompense. 


Sir  Robert  Ayton. 


FAIR  AND   UmVOItTHY. 

I  DO  confess  thou'rt  smooth  and  fair. 
And  1  might  have  gone  near  to  love 
thee, 
Had  I  not  found  the  lightest  prayer 
That  lips  could  speak,  had  power 
to  move  thee : 
But  I  can  let  thee  now  alone, 
As  worthy  to  be  loved  by  none. 

I  do  confess  thou'rt  sweet;  yet  find 
Thee  such  an  unthrif  t  of  thy  sweets, 

Thy  favors  are  but  like  the  wind, 
That  kisses  everything  it  meets ; 

And  since  thou  canst  with  more  than 
one, 

Thou'rt  worthy  to  be  kissed  by  none. 

The  morning  rose  that    untouched 

stands 
Armed  with  her  briers,  how  sweetly 

smells ! 
But  plucked  and  strained  through 

ruder  hands, 
No  more  her  sweetness  with  her 

dwells. 
But  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone, 
And  leaves  fall  from  her  one  by  one. 

Such  fate,  erelong,  will  thee  betide, 
When   thou    hast   handled   been 
awhile,  — 
Like  sere  flowers  to  be  thrown  aside; 
And  I  will  sigh,  while  some  will 
smile, 
To  see  thy  love  for  more  than  one 
Hath  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by 
none. 


Anna  Letitia  Barbauld. 

THE  SABBATH  OF  THE  SOUL. 

Sleep,    sleep     to-day,    tormenting 
cares. 
Of  earth  and  folly  bom ; 
Ye    shall    not    dim    the    light   that 
streams 
From  this  celestial  morn. 

To-morrow  will  be  time  enough 
To  feel  your  harsh  control ; 

Ye  shall  not  violate,  this  day. 
The  Sabbath  of  my  soul. 

Sleep,  sleep  forever,  guilty  thoughts. 
Let  fires  of  vengeance  die ; 

And,  purged  from  sin,  may  I  be- 
hold 
A  God  of  piirity. 


Mary  A.  Barr. 

WHITE  POPPIES. 

O  MYSTIC,  mighty  flower  whose  frail 

white  leaves 
Silky  and  crmnpled  like  a  banner 

furled, 
Shadow  the  black  mysterious  seed 

that  gives 
The  drop  that  soothes  and  lulls  a 

restless  world; 
Nepenthes  for  our  woe,  yet  swift  to 

kill, 
Holding  the  knowledge  of  both  good 

and  ill. 

The  rose  for  beauty  may  outshine 

thee  far, 
The  lily  hold  herself    like  some 

sweet  saint 
Apart  from  earthly  griefs,  as  is  a 

star 
Apart  from  any  fear  of  earthly 

taint ; 
The    snowy  poppy  like    an    angel 

stands. 
With  consolation  in  her  open  hands. 


BENJAMIN. 


799 


Ere    History   was    bom,    the    poet 
sung 
How  godlike  Thone  knew  thy  com- 
pelling power, 

And  ancient  Ceres,  by  strange  sor- 
rows wrung, 
Sought  sweet  oblivion  from  thy 
healing  flower. 

Giver  of  sleep  I  Lord  of  the  Land  of 
Dreams ! 

O   simple  weed,  thou  art  not  what 
man  deems. 


The  clear-eyed  Greeks  saw  oft  their 
god  of  sleep 
Wandering    about    through     the 
black  midnight  hours. 

Soothing   the  restless    couch   with 
slumbers  deep, 
And  scattering  thy  medicated  flow- 
ers. 

Till  hands  were  folded  for  their  final 
rest. 

Clasping  white  poppies  o'er  a  pulse- 
less breast. 


We   have   a   clearer   vision;   every 
hour 
Kind  hearts  and  hands  the  poppy 
juices  mete. 

And  panting  sufferers  bless  jts  kindly 
power. 
And  weary  ones  invoke  its  peace- 
ful sleep. 

Health  has  its  rose,  and  grape  and 
joyful  palm. 

The  poppy  to  the  sick  is  wine  and 
balm. 


I  sing  the  poppy!  The  frail  snowy 

weed! 
The  flower  of  mercy !  that  within 

its  heart 
Doth   keep   "a    drop    serene"    for 

human  need, 
A  drowsy  balm  for  every  bitter 

smart. 
For  happy  hours  the  rose  will  idly 

blow  — 
The  poppy  hath  a  charm  for  pain 

and  woe. 


Park  Benjamin. 

PRESS  OX, 

PRES8  on!  there's  no  such  word  as 
fail! 
Press  nobly  on !  the  goal  is  near,  — 
Ascend    the    mountain!    breast   th*^ 
gale! 
Look    upward,     onward,  —  never 
fear! 
Why  shouldst  thou  faint?    Heaven 
smiles  above. 
Though  storm  and  vapor  intervene : 
That  sun  shines  on,  whose  name  is 
Love, 
Serenely  o'er  Life's  shadow' d  scene. 

Press  on !  surmount  the  rocky  steeps, 

Climb    boldly   o'er   the    torrent's 
arch ; 
He  fails  alone  who  feebly  creeps ; 

He  wins,  who    dares    the   hero's 
march. 
Be  thou  a  hero!  let  thy  might 

Tramp  on  eternal  snows  its  way. 
And  through  the  ebon  walls  of  night 

Hew  down  a  passage  unto  day. 

Press  on!  if  Fortune  play  thee  false 
To-day,  to-morrow  she'll  be  true; 
Whom    now    she    sinks    she    now 
exalts, 
Taking  old  gifts  and  granting  new. 
The  wisdom  of  the  present  hour 
Makes    up    for    follies    past    and 
gone,  — 
To  weakness  strength  succeeds,  and 
power 
From  frailty  springs, — press  onl 
press  on ! 

Press  on!  what   though   upon   the 
ground 
Thy  love  has  been  poured  out  like 
rain? 
That  happiness  is  always  found 
The   sweetest,  which   is  born  of 
pain. 
Oft  'mid  the  forest's  deepest  glooms, 
A  bird  sings  from  some  blighted 
tree, 
And,  in  the  dreariest  desert,  blooms 
A  never-dying  rose  for  thee. 


800 


BENSEL  -BLACKIE. 


Therefore,  press  on!  and  reach  the 
goal, 
And  gain  the  prize  and  wear  the 
crown ; 
Faint  not !  for  to  the  steadfast  soul 
Come   wealth  and  honor  and  re- 
nown. 
To  thine  own  self  be  true,  and  keep 
Thy  mind  from  sloth,  thy  heart 
from  soil ; 
Press  on !  and  thou  shalt  surely  reap 
A  heavenly  harvest  for  thy  toil ! 


Annie  Berry  Bensel 

THE  LADY  OF  THE   CASTLE. 

See  you  yonder  castle  stately  ? 

On  the  rocks  it  stands  alone, 
Gleaming  in  the  silver  moonlight 

Like  a  sentinel  of  stone. 

Years  ago  in  that  old  castle 
Dwelt  a  lady,  proud  and  grand ; 

Fairer  than  the  fairest  lady 
You  might  find  in  all  the  land. 

It  was  on  her  bridal  morning  — 
So  the  gossips  tell  the  tale  — 

Lady  Hilda  walked  the  garden, 
Fairer  than  the  roses  pale. 

Soon  she  reached  the  massive  gate- 
way, 

And  her  dark  eyes  sparkled  bright. 
As  she  saw  a  gay  procession 

Wending  towards  tlie  castle  height. 

For  she  knew  it  was  her  lover, 
With  his  meriy  comrades  all; 

Foremost  in  the  glittering  pageant 
Kode  Count  Rupert,  fair  and  tall. 

Just  between  them  and  the  castle 
Lay  a  chasm  wide  and  deep ; 

They  must  ride  still  further  onward 
O'er  the  bridge  their  road  to  keep. 

But  Count  Rupert  saw  the  lady 
Standing  by  the  gateway  there, 

Dauntlessly  he  turned  his  charger, 
Heeding  not  the  cry,  "  Beware  I" 


"  It  is  but  a  narrow  chasm, 
Go  you  by  the  bridge,"  cried  he, 

"  I  will  leap  to  yonder  hillock. 
There  my  lady  waits  for  me." 

All  in  vain  his  comrades'  warning, 
Vain,  alas,  his  page's  cries; 

Forward  leaps  the  noble  charger. 
Lady  Hilda  veils  her  eyes. 

One  long  cry  of  bitter  anguish! 

She  who  heard  it,  swooning,  fell; 
Knowing  by  that  single  outcry 

All  the  tale  there  was  to  tell. 

Turn  your  eyes  beyond  the  castle, 
You  will  see  a  convent  drear ; 

There  the  lady  lived  they  tell  me. 
Just  for  one  brief  momnful  yeai-. 

There  within  the  lofty  chapel 
Is  a  quaint  and  carven  tomb, 

Lady  Hilda  —  well  beloved  — 
Sleeps  beneath  the  ghostly  gloom. 

No  one  dwells  in  that  old  castle, 

Desolate  it  stands  alone, 
Gleaming  in  the  silver  moonlight 

Like  a  sentinel  of  stone. 


John  Stuart  Blackie. 

THE   HOPE   OF  THE   HETERODOX. 

In  Thee,  O  blessed  God,  I  hope. 

In  Thee,  in  Thee,  in  Thee ! 
Though    banned    by  presbyter   and 
pope. 
My  trust  is  still  in  Thee. 
Thou    wilt    not    cast    Thy    servant 
out 
Because  he  chanced  to  see 
With  his  own   eyes,   and   dared  to 
doubt 
What  praters  preach  of  Thee. 
Oh  no !  no !  no  I 
For  ever  and  ever  and  aye, 
(Though    pope    and   presbyter 

bray) 
Thou  wilt  not  cast  away 
An  honest  soul  from  thee. 


BLANCnARD. 


801 


I  look  around  on  earth  and  sky, 

And  Thee  and  ever  Thee, 
With  open  heart  and  open  eyes 

How  can  I  fail  to  see  ? 
My  ear  drinks  in  from  field  and  fell 

Life's  rival  floods  of  glee: 
Where  finds  the  priest  his  private  hell 
When  all  is  full  of  Thee  ? 
Oh  no!  no!  no! 
Thoui^h  flocks  of  geese 
Give  Heaven's  high  ear  no  peace: 
I  still  enjoy  a  lease 
Of  happy  thoughts  from  Thee. 

My  faith  is  strong;  out  of  itself 

It  grows  erect  and  free; 
No  Talmud  on  the  Rabbi's  shelf 

Gives  amulets  to  me. 
Small  Greek  I  know,  nor  Hebrew 
much, 
But  this  I  plainly  see: 
Two  legs  without  the  bishop's  crutch 
God  gave  to  thee  and  me. 
Oh  no!  no!  no! 
The  church  may  loose  and  bind, 
But  mind,  immortal  mind, 
As  free  as  wave  or  wind. 
Came  forth,  O  God,  from  Thee ! 

O  pious  quack!  thy  pills  are  good; 

But  mine  as  good  may  be, 
And  healthy  men  on  healthy  food 

Live  without  you  or  me. 
Good  lady!  let  the  doer  do! 

Thought  is  a  busy  bee. 
Nor  honey  less  what  it  doth  brew, 
Though  very  gall  to  thee. 
Oh  no !  no !  no ! 
Though  councils  decree  and  de- 
clare ; 
Like  a  tree  in  the  open  air, 
The  soul  its  foliage  fair 
Spreads  forth,  O  God,  to  Thee! 


Laman  Blanchard. 

WISHES  OF  YOUTH. 

Gayly  and  greenly  let  my  seasons 

run: 
And  should  the  war-winds    of   the 

world  uproot 


The  sanctities  of  life,  and  its  sweet 

fruit 
Cast   forth    as   fuel    for    the   fiery 

Sim, — 
The  dews  be  tm-ned  to   ice,  —  fair 

days  begun 
In  peace,   wear    out    in    pain,  and 

sounds  that  suit 
Despair  and   discord,  keep    Hope's 

harp-string  mute. 
Still  let  me  live  as  Love  and  Life  were 

one: 
Still  let  me  turn  on  earth  a  childlike 

gaze, 
And  trust   the  whispered  charities 

that  bring 
Tidings  of  human  truth;  with  inward 

praise 
Watch  the  weak  motion  of  each  com- 
mon thing. 
And  find   it   glorious  —  still  let  me 

raise 
On  wintry  wrecks,  an  altar  to  the 

Spring. 


HIDDEN  JOYS. 

Pleasures   lie   thickest  where  no 

pleasures  seem : 
There's  not  a  leaf  that  falls  upon  the 

ground 
But  holds  some  joy,  of  silence  or  of 

sound. 
Some  sprite  begotten  of  a  summer 

dream. 
The  very  meanest  things  are  made 

supreme 
With  innate  ecstasy.     No  grain  of 

sand 
But  moves   a   bright   and  million- 
peopled  land. 
And  hath  its  Edens  and  its  Eves,  I 

deem. 
For  Love,  though  blind  himself,  a 

curious  eye 
Hath  lent  me,  to  behold  the  hearts  of 

things. 
And  touched  mine  ear  with  power. 

Thus  far  or  nigh. 
Minute  or  mighty,  fixed,  or  free  with 

wings, 


80^ 


BLUNT, 


Delight  from  many  a  nameless  covert 

sly 
Peeps  sparkling,  and  in  tones  familiar 

sings. 


THE  ELOQUENT  PASTOR  DEAD. 

He  taught  the  cheerfulness  that  still 

is  ours 
The    sweetness    that    still    lurks  in 

human  powers ; 
If  heaven  be  full  of  stars,  the  earth 

has  flowers. 


glowing  mind ; 

The  gentle  will,  to  others  soon  re- 
signed ; 

But,  more  than  all,  the  feeling  just 
and  kind. 

His  pleasures  were  as  melodies  from 
reeds  — 

Sweet  books,  deep  music  and  un- 
selfish deeds, 

Finding  immortal  flowers  in  human 
weeds. 

TiTie  to  his  kind,   nor    of    himself 

afraid, 
He  deemed  that  love  of  God  was  best 

arrayed 
In  love  of  all  the  things  that  God  has 

made. 

He  deemed  man's  life  no  feverish 

dream  of  care. 
But  a  high  pathway  into  freer  air. 
Lift  up  with  golden  hopes  and  duties 

fair. 

He  showed    how  wisdom  turns  its 

hours  to  years. 
Feeding  the  heart  on  joys  instead  of 

fears, 
And  worships  God  in  smiles,  and  not 

in  tears. 

His  thoughts  were  as  a  pyramid  up- 
piled. 

On  whose  far  top  an  angel  stood  and 
smiled  — 

Yet  in  his  heart  was  he  a  simple 
child. 


Wilfred  Blunt 

(PKOTEUS). 

TO  ONE   WHO   WOULD  MAKE  A 
CONFESSION. 

Oh!  leave  the  past  to  bury  its  own 

dead; 
The  past  is  naught  to  us,  the  present 

all. 
What  need  of  last  year's  leaves  to 

strew  love's  bed  ? 
What  need  of  ghosts  to  grace  a  fes- 
tival ? 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  those  days 

recall. 
Those  days  not  ours.     For  us  the 

feast  is  spread, 
The  lamps  are  lit,  and  music  plays 

withal. 
Then  let  us  love  and  leave  the  rest 

unsaid. 
This  island  is  om*  home.     Around  it 

roar 
Great  gulfs  and    oceans,  channels, 

straits,  and  seas. 
What    matter    in    what    wreck    we 

reached  the  shore, 
So  we  both  reached  it?     We  can 

mock  at  these. 
Oh!  leave  the  past,  if  past  indeed 

there  be. 
I  would  not  know  it.    I  would  know 

but  thee. 


THE   TWO  HIGHWAYMEN. 

I  LONG  have  had  a  quarrel  set  with 

Time, 
Because  he  robbed  me.     Every  day 

of  life 
Was  wrested  from  me  after  bitter 

strife, 
I  never  yet  could  see  the  5un  go 

dOWTl 

But  1  was  angry  in  my  heart,  nor 
hear 

The  leaves  fall  in  the  wind  without  a 
tear 

Over  the  dying  summer.  I  have 
known 

No  truce  with  Time  nor  Time's  ac- 
complice, Death. 


BLUNT. 


80S 


The  fair  world  is  the  witness  of  a 
crime 

Repeated  every  hour.  For  life  and 
breath 

Are  sweet  to  all  who  live;  and  bit- 
terly 

The  voices  of  these  robbers  of  the 
heath 

Sound  in  each  ear  and  chill  the  passer- 
by. 

—  What  have  we  done  to  thee,  thou 
monsti'ous  Time  ? 

What  have  we  done  to  Death  that  we 
must  die  ? 


A  DAY  IN  SUSSEX. 

The  dove  did  lend  me  wings.     I  fled 

away 
From  the  loud  world  which  long  had 

troubled  me. 
Oh,  lightly  did  I  flee  when  hoyden 

May 
Threw  her  white  mantle  on  the  haw- 
thorn tree. 
I  left  the  dusty  highroad,  and  my  way 
Was  through  deep    meadows,   shut 

with  copses  fair. 
A  choir  of  thrushes  poured  its  round- 
elay 
From  every  hedge  and  every  thicket 

there. 
Mild,  moon-faced    kine  looked  on, 

where  in  the  grass, 
All  heaped  with  flowers  I  lay,  from 

noon  till  eve ; 
And  hares  unwitting  close  to  me  did 

pass, 
And  still  the  birds  sang,  and  I  could 

not  grieve. 
Oh,  what  a  blessed  thing  that  evening 

was! 
Peace,  music,  twilight,  all  that  could 

deceive 
A  soul  to  joy,  or  lull  a  heart  to  peace. 
It  glimmers  yet  across  whole  years 

like  these. 


LAUGHTER  AND  DEATH. 

There  is  no  laughter  in  the  natural 

world 
Of  beast  or  fish  or  bird,  though  no 

sad  doubt 


Of  their  futurity  to  them  unfurled 

Has  dared  to  check  the  mirth-com- 
pelling shout. 

The  lion  roars  his  solemn  thunder 
out 

To  the  sleeping  woods.  The  eagle 
screams  her  cry ; 

Even  the  lark  must  strain  a  serious 
throat 

To  hurl  his  blest  defiance  at  the  sky 

Fear,  anger,  jealousy  have  found  a 
voice ; 

Love's  pains  or  raptures  the  brute 
bosom  swell. 

Nature  has  symbols  for  her  nobler 

joys, 

Her  nobler  sorrows.    Who  had  dared 

foretell 
That  only  man,  by  some  sad  mock- 

ery» 
Should  learn  to  laugh  who  learns 
that  he  must  die  ? 


COLD  COMFORT. 

There  is  no  comfort  underneath  the 

sun. 
Youth  turns  to  age ;  riches  are  quickly 

spent ; 
Pride  breeds  us  pain,  our  pleasures 

punishment; 
The  very  courage  which  we  count 

upon 
A  single  night  of  fever  shall  break 

down ; 
And  love  is  slain  by  fear.     Death  last 

of  all 
Spreads  out  his  nets  and  watches  for 

our  fall. 
There  is  no  comfort  underneath  the 

sun! 
—  When  thou  art  old,  O  man,  if  thou 

wert  proud 
Be  humble;  pride  will  here  avail  thee 

not. 
There  is  no  courage  which  can  con- 

quer  death. 
Forget  that  thou  wert  wise.     Nay, 

keep  thy  breath 
For  prayer,  that  so  thy  wisdom  be 

forgot 
And  thou  perhaps  get  pity  of   thy 

God. 


804 


BOKEB. 


George  Henry  Boker. 

iFrom  "  The  Booh  of  the  Dead."  ] 

NEARNESS. 

Through  the  dark  path,  o'er  which 
I  tread, 
One  voice  is  ever  at  my  ear. 
One  muffled  form  deserts  the  dead. 
And  haunts  my  presence  far  and 
near. 

In  times  of  doubt,  he  whispers  trust ; 

In  danger,  drops  a  warning  word ; 
And  wlien  I  waver  from  the  just, 

His  low,  complaining  sigh  is  heard. 

He  follows  me,  with  patient  tread, 
From    daybreak     unto    evening's 
close ; 

He  bends  beside  me,  head  by  head. 
To  scent  the  violet  or  the  rose. 

And  sharing  thus  my  smallest  deed. 
When  all  the  works  of  day  are  past, 

And  sleep  becomes  a  blessed  need. 
He  lies  against  my  heart  at  last. 

Dear  ghost,  I  feel  no  dread  of  thee ; 

A  gracious  comrade  thou  art  grown ; 
Be  near  me,  cheer,  bend  over  me. 

When  the  long  sleep  is  settling 
down ! 


IN  AUTUMN. 

In  hazy  gold  the  hill-side  sleeps. 
The  distance  fades  within  the  mist, 

A  cloud  of  lucid  vapor  creeps 
Along  the  lake's  pale  amethyst. 

The  sun  is  but  a  blur  of  light, 
The  sky  in  ashy  gray  is  lost; 

But  all  the  forest-trees  are  bright, 
Brushed  by  the  pinions  of  the  frost. 

I  hear  the  clamor  of  the  crow, 
The  wild-ducks'  far  discordant  cry, 

A.S  swiftly  out  of  sight  they  go, 
In  wedges  driving  through  the  sky. 


I  know  the  sunshine  of  this  hour, 
Warm  as  the  glow  of  early  May, 

Will  never  wake  the  dying  flower, 
Nor  breathe  a  spirit  through  decay. 

The  scarlet  leaves  are  doomed  to 
fall. 

The  lake  shall  stiffen  at  a  breath ; 
The  crow  shall  ring  his  dreary  call 

Above  December's  waste  of  death. 

And  so,  thou  bird  of  southern  flight. 
My  soul  is  yearning  for  thy  wings; 

I  dread  the  thoughts  that  come  to 
light. 
In  gazing  on  the  death  of  things. 

Fain  would  I  spread  an  aiiy  plume. 
For  lands  where  endless  summers 
reign. 

And  lose  myself  in  tropic  bloom. 
And  never  think  of  death  again. 


MY  ANSWER. 

When  I  am  turned  to  mouldering 
dust. 
And  all  my  ways  are  lost  in  night, 
When    through    me    crocuses    have 
thrust 
Their  pointed  blades,  to  find  the 
light; 

And  caught  by  plant  and  grass  and 
grain. 
My  elements  are  made  a  part 
Of   nature,   and,    through   sun    and 
rain. 
Swings  in  a  flower  my  way^'ard 
heart ; 

Some  curious  mind  may  haply  ask, 
"  Who  penned  this  scrap  of  olden 
song  ? 

Paint  us  the  man  whose  woful  task 
Frowns  in  the  public  eye  so  long." 

I  answer,  truly  as  I  can ; 

I  hewed  the  wood,  the  water  drew; 
I  toiled  along,  a  common  man,  — 

A  man,  in  all  things,  like  to  you. 


BOLTON—  BRADDOCK. 


805 


Sarah  K.  Bolton. 

ENTERED  INTO  REST. 

Soldier,  statesman,  scholar,  friend, 
Brother  to  the  lowHest  one, 

Life  has  come  to  sudden  end. 
But  its  work  is  grandly  done. 

Toil  and  cares  of  state  are  o'er; 

Pain  and  stiiiggle  come  no  more. 
Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 


Nations  weep  about  thy  bier. 
Flowers  are  sent  by  queenly  hands; 

Bring  the  poor  their  homage  here. 
Come  the  great  from  many  lauds. 

Be  thy  grave  our  Mecca,  hence, 

With  its  speechless  eloquence ; 
Kest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 

Winter  snows  will  wrap  thy  mound, 
Spring  will  send  its  wealth  of  bloom. 

Summer  kiss  the  velvet  ground, 
Autumn  leaves  lie  on  thy  tomb : 

Home  beside  this  inland  sea, 

Where  thou  lov'dst  in  life  to  be: 
Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 

Strong  for  right,  in  danger  brave. 
Tender  as  with  woman's  heart, 

Champion  of  the  fettered  slave, 
Of  the  people's  life  a  part. 

To  be  loved  is  highest  fame ; 

Garfield,  an  immortal  name! 

Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 

All  thy  gifted  words  shall  be 
Treasured  speech  from  age  to  age; 

Thy  heroic  loyalty 
Be  a  country's  heritage; 

Mentor  and  thy  precious  ties 

Sacred  in  the  nation's  eyes. 

Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 

From  thy  life  and  death  shall  come 

An  ennobled,  purer  race, 
Honoring  labor,  wife,  and  home; 

More  of  cheer  and  Christian  grace. 
Kindest,  truest !  till  that  day 
When  He  rolls  the  stone  away, 
Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 


A.  B.  BOYLE. 

WIDOWED. 

Sue  did  not  sigh  for  death,  nor  make 
sad  moan. 

Turning  from  smiles  as  one  who 
solace  fears. 

But  filled  with  kindly  deeds  the  wait- 
ing years; 

Yet,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  she  lived 
alone, 

And  in  her  voice  there  thrilled  an 
undertone 

That  seemed  to  rise  from  soundless 
depths  of  tears ; 

As,  when  the  sea  is  calm,  one  some- 
times hears 

The  k)ng,  low  murmur  of  a  storm, 
unknown 

Within  the  sheltered  haven  where  he 
stands, 

While  tokens  of  a  tempest  overpast 

The  changing  tide  brings  to  the 
shining  sands; 

So  on  the  surface  of  her  life  was  cast. 

An  ever-present  shadow  of  the  day, 

When  love  and  joy  went  hand  in 
hand  away. 


Emily  A.  Braddock. 

AN  UNTHRIFT. 

Brown  bird,  with  a  wisp  in  your 
mouth  for  your  nest, 

Away!  away!  you  have  found  your 
guest. 

Golden-ringed  bee,  through  the  air- 
sea  steer  home, 

The  freight  of  sweets  that  lured  you 
to  roam. 

O  reapers!  well  may  you  sing,  to 
hold 

Your  arms  brimful  of  the  grain's 
bossed  gold. 

But  what  to  me  that  ye  all  go  by  ? 

An  unthrift,  empty-handed,  fare  I, 

Yet  I  heard,  as  I  passed,  the  noise 
of  a  rill ; 

In  my  heart  of  hearts,  it  is  singing 
still. 


806 


BBINE. 


Blent  with  the  wind's  sough,  the  trill 

of  a  bird, 
A  child's  laugh  and  a  gracious  word, 
Pictures  I  saw  limned  everywhere, 
A  light  here  and  a  shadow  there  — 
A  cloud,  a  stream,  a  flower  small; 
In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  have  hid 

them  all ; 
And  some  one,  it  may  be,  yet  through 

me 
The  songs  shall  hear  and  the  pictures 

see. 
O  brown  bird,  and  bee,  and  reapers, 

goby! 
Eicher  than  any  of  you  am  I. 


Mary  D.  Brine. 

SOMEBODY'S  MOTHEF. 

The  woman  was  old  and  i^af^ged  and 
gray, 

And  bent  with  the  chill  cf  the  win- 
ter's day: 

The  street  was  wet  with   a  recent 

snow. 
And  the  woman's  feet  were  ag^d  and 

slow. 

She  stood  at  the  crossing  and  waited 

long, 
Alone,  uncared-for,  amid  the  throng 

Of  human  beings  who   passed  her 

by, 

Nor  heeded  the  glance  of  her  anxious 
eye. 

Down  the  street  with  laughter  and 

shout, 
Glad  in  the  freedom  of  "  school  let 

out," 

Came  the  boys  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
Hailing  the  snow  piled  white  and 
deep. 

Past  the  woman  so  old  and  gray 
Hastened  the  childi'en  on  their  way, 


Nor  offered  a  helping  hand  to  her. 
So  meek,  so  timid,  afraid  to  stir, 

Lest  the  carriage  wheels  or  the  horses' 
feet 

Should  crowd  her  down  in  the  slip- 
pery street. 

At  last  came  one  of  the  merry  troop — 
The  gayest  laddie  of  all  the  group  : 

He  paused  beside  her  and  whispered 

low, 
"I'll  help  you  across  if  you  wish  to 

go." 

Her  aged  hand  on  his  strong  young 

arm 
She  placed,  and  so,  without  hurt  or 

harm, 

He  guided  her  trembling  feet  along, 
Fioud  that  his  own  were  firm  and 
strong. 

Then  back  again  to  his  friends  he 
went. 

His  young  heart  happy  and  well  con- 
tent. 

"  She's    somebody's  mother,    boys, 

you  know, 
For  all  she's  aged  and  poor  and  slow; 

And  I  hope  some  fellow  will  lend  a 

hand 
To  help  my  mother,  you  understand, 

If  ever  she's  poor  and  old  and  gray, 
When    her    own    dear    boy    is    far 
away." 

And  "somebody's  mother"  bowed 

low  her  head 
In  her  home  that  night,   and    the 

pi-ayer  she  said 

Was,    "God  be  kind    to  the  noble 

boy 
Who  is  somebody's  son  and  pride  and 

joy." 


BUCHANAN^  BUNNER, 


807 


ROBERT  Buchanan. 

DYING. 

"  O  BAIRN,  when  I  am  dead, 
How  shall  ye  keep  frae  harm  ? 

What  hand  will  gie  ye  bread  ? 
What  fire  will  keep  ye  warm  ? 

How  shall  ye  dwell  on  earth  awa'  fra 
me!" 
"  O  mither,  dinna  dee!  " 

"  O  bairn,  by  night  or  day 

I  hear  nae  sounds  ava'. 
But  voices  of  winds  that  blaw, 

And  the  voices  of  ghaists  that  say, 
Come  awa' !  come  awa' ! 
The  Lord  that  made  the  wind  and 
made  the  sea. 

Is  hard  on  my  bairn  and  me, 
And  I  melt  in  his  breath  like  snaw." 

"  O  mither,  dinna  dee! " 

"  O  bairn,  it  is  but  closing  up  the  een. 
And  lying  down  never  to  rise  again. 
Many  a  strong  man's  sleeping  hae  I 
seen,  — 
There  is  nae  pain ! 
I'm  weary,  weary,  and  I  scarce  ken 
why; 
My  summer  has  gone  by. 
And  sweet  were  sleep,  but  for  the 
sake  o'  thee." 
"O  mither,  dinna  dee!" 


{From  Faces  on  the  Wall.^ 
TO   TIUFLERS. 

Go,  triflers  with  God's  secret.     Far, 

oh, far 
Be  your  thin  monotone,  your  brows 

flower-crowned, 
Your  backward-looking  faces;  for  ye 

mar 
The  pregnant  time  with  silly  sooth 

of  sound, 
With  flowers    around    the    feverish 

temples  bound, 
And  withering  in  the  close  air  of  the 

feast. 
Take  all  the  summer  pleasures  ye 

have  found. 


While  Circe-charmed  ye  turn  to  bird 

and  beast. 
Meantime  I  sit  apart,  a  lonely  wight 
On  this  bare  rock  amid  this  fitful 

sea, 
And  in  the  wind  and  rain  I  try  to 

light 
A  little  lamp  that  may  a  beacon  be. 
Whereby    poor     ship-folk,     driving 

through  the  night, 
May  gain  the  ocean-course,  and  think 

of  me ! 


H.  C.  BUNNER. 

LONGFELLOW. 

Poet,  whose  sunny  span  of  fruitful 
years 
Outreaches    earth,     whose    voice 
within  our  ears 
Grows  silent  —  shall  we  mourn  for 
thee  ?    Our  sigh 
Is  April's  breath,  our  grief  is  April's 
tears. 

If  this  be  dying,  fair  it  is  to  die: 
Even  as  a  garment  weariness  lays 

by, 
Thou  layest  down  life,  to  pass  as  time 
hath  passed, 
From  wintry  rigors  to  a  springtime 
sky. 

Are  there  tears  left  to  give  thee  at 

the  last. 
Poet  of  spirits  crushed  and  hearts 

downcast, 
Loved  of   worn  women  who  when 

work  is  done 
Weep  o'er  thy  page  in  twilights 

fading  fast  ? 

Oh,    tender-toned     and     tender- 
hearted one. 

We  give  thee  to   the  season  new 
begun ! 
Lay  thy  white  head  within  the  arms 
of  spring  — 

Thy  song  had  all  her  shower  and 
all  her  sun. 


808 


BUBBIDGE, 


Nay,   let  us    not    such    sorrowful 

tribute  bring 
Now  that  thy  lark-like  soul  hath 

taken  wing: 
A  grateful  memoiy  fills  and  more 

endears 
The    silence    when    a    bird    hath 

ceased  to  sing. 


TO  A  DEAD    WOMAN. 

Not  a  kiss  in  life;  but  one  kiss,  at 
life's  end, 
I  have  set  on  the  face  of  Death  in 
trust  for  thee. 
Through  long  years,  keep  it  fresh  on 
thy  lips,  O  friend ! 
At  the  gate  of  silence,  give  it  back 
tome. 


IRWIN  RUSSELL. 

Died  in  New  Orleans,  Dec,  1879. 

Small  was  thy  share  of    all    this 
world's  delight. 
And  scant  thy  poet's  crown  of  flow- 
ers of  praise ; 
Yet  ever  catches  quaint  of  quaint 
old  days 
Thou  sang' St,  and,  singing,  kept  thy 

spirit  bright : 
Even  as  to  lips,  the  winds  of  winter 
bite. 
Some  outcast  wanderer  sets  his  flute 

and  plays 
Till  at  his  feet  blossom  the  icy 
ways. 
And    from    the     snowdrift's    bitter 
wasting  white 
He  hears  the  uprising  carol  of  the 
lark. 
Soaring  from    clover  seas  with 
summer  ripe  — 
While  freeze  upon  his  cheek 
glad,  foolish  tears. 
Ah !  let  us  hope  that  somewhere  in 
thy  dark, 
Herrick's  full  note,  and  Suck- 
ling's pleasant  pipe 
Are  sounding  still  their  solace 
in  thine  ears. 


A    WOMAN'S    WAY. 

She  might   have  known  it  in  the 
earlier  spring. 
That  all  my  heart  with  vague  desire 
was  stirred ; 
And,  ere  the  summer  winds  had  taken 
wing. 
I  told  her ;  but  she  smiled  and  said 
no  word. 

The  autumn's  eager  hand  his  red  gold 
grasped, 
And  she  was  silent ;  till  from  skies 
grown  drear 
Fell  soft  one  fine,  first  snow-flake,  and 
she  clasped 
My  neck,   and  cried,   "  Love,  we 
have  lost  a  year!" 


Thomas  Burbidge. 

AT  DIVINE  DISPOSAL. 

Oh,   leave  thyself  to  God!    and  if, 

indeed, 
'Tis  given  thee  to  perform  so  vast  a 

task, 
Think  not  at  all  —  think    not,    but 

kneel  and  ask. 
O  friend,  by  thought  was  never  crea- 
ture freed 
From    any    sin,    from    any    mortal 

need: 
Be  patient !  not  by  thought  canst  thou 

devise 
What  course  of  life  for  thee  is  right 

and  wise; 
It  will  be  written  up,  and  thou  wilt 

read. 
Oft    like   a   sudden   pencil   of    rich 

light. 
Piercing  the  thickest  umbrage  of  the 

wood. 
Will  shoot,  amid  our  troubles  infinite. 
The  spirit's  voice;  oft,  like  the  balmy 

flood 
Of  mom,  surprise  the  universal  night 
With   glory,   and    make    all    things 

sweet  and  good. 


BU RLE  ion. 


809 


E  VENTIDE. 

Comes  something  down  with  even- 
tide 

Beside  the  sunset's  golden  bars, 
Beside  the  floating  scents,  beside 

The  twinkling  sliadows  of  the  stars. 

Upon  the  river's  rippling  face, 
Flash  after  flash  the  white 

Broke  up  in  many  a  shallow  place; 
The  rest  was  soft  and  bright. 

By  chance  my  eye  fell  on  the  stream ; 

How  many  a  marvellous  power. 
Sleeps  in  us,  —  sleeps,  and  doth  not 
dream ! 

This  knew  1  in  that  hour. 

For  then  my  heart,  so  full  of  strife, 
No  more  was  in  me  stirred ; 

My  life  was  in  the  river's  life, 
And  I  nor  saw  nor  heard. 

I  and  the  river,  we  were  one : 
The  shade  beneath  the  bank, 

I  felt  it  cool ;  the  setting  sun 
Into  my  spirit  sank. 

A  rushing  thing  in  power  serene 

I  was ;  the  mystery 
I  felt  of  having  ever  been 

And  being  still  to  be. 

Was  it  a  moment  or  ah  hour  ? 

I  knew  not ;  but  I  mourned 
When  from  that  realm  of  awful  power, 

I  to  these  fields  returned. 


William  Henry  Burleigh. 

THE  HARVEST-CALL. 

Abide  not  in  the  land  of  dreams, 
O  man,  however  fair  it  seems. 
Where  drowsy  airs  thy  powers  repress 
In  languors  of  sweet  idleness. 

Nor  linger  in  the  misty  past. 
Entranced  in  visions  vague  and  vast ; 
But  with  clear  eye  the  present  scan. 
And  hear  the  call  of  God  to  man. 


That  call,   though  many-voiced,    is 

one, 
With  mighty  meanings  in  each  tone; 
Through  sob  and  laughter,  shriek  and 

prayer. 
Its  simimons  meets  thee  everywhere. 

Think  not  in  sleep  to  fold  thy  hands, 
Forgetful  of  thy  Lord's  commands; 
From  duty's  claims  no  life  is  free. 
Behold,  to-day  hath  need  of  thee. 

Look  up!  the  wide  extended  plain 
Is  billowy  with  its  ripened  grain ; 
And  in  the  summer  winds,  are  rolled 
Its  waves  of  emerald  and  gold. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle,  nor  delay 
The  work  that  calls  for  thee  to-day ; 
To-morrow,  if  it  come,  will  bear 
Its  own  demands  of  toil  and  care. 

The  present  hour  allots  thy  task ! 

For  present  strength  and  patience 
ask. 

And  trust  His  love  whose  sure  sup- 
plies 

Meet  all  thy  needs  as  they  arise. 

Lo!   the  broad  fields  with    har\'est 

white. 
Thy  hands  to  strenuous  toil  invite: 
And  he  who  Jabors  and  believes. 
Shall  reap  reward  of  ample  sheaves. 

Up!  for  the  time  is  short;  and  soon 
The  morning  sun  will  climb  to  noon. 
Up!  ere  the  herds,   with  trampling 

feet 
Outrunning  thine,    shall    spoil    the 

wheat. 

While  the  day  lingers,  do  thy  best! 
Full  soon  the  night  will  bring  its  rest; 
And,  duty  done,  that  rest  shall  be 
Full  of  beatitudes  to  thee. 


RAIN. 


Dashing  in  big  drops  on  the  narrow 

pane. 
And  making  mournful  music  for  the 

mind, 


810 


CHATTERTON—  CHAUCER. 


While  plays  his  interlude  the  wizard 

wind, 
I  hear  the  ringing  of  the  frequent 

rain: 
How  doth  its  dreamy  tone  the  spirit 

lull, 
Bringing  a    sweet   forgetfulness    of 

pain, 
While  busy  thought  calls  up  the  past 

again, 
And  lingers  mid  the  pure  and  beau- 
tiful 
Visions  of  early  childhood!     Sunny 

faces 
Meet  us  with  looks  of  love,  and  in 

the  moans 
Of  the  faint  wind  we  hear  familiar 

tones, 
And    tread    again    in    old    familiar 

places ! 
Such  is  thy  power,  O  rain !  the  heart 

to  bless. 
Wiling  the  soul  away  from  its  own 

wretchedness. 


Thomas  Chatterton. 

ON  RESIGNATION. 

O  God,  whose  thunder  shakes  the 
sky, 

Whose  eye  this  atom  globe  surveys, 
To  Thee,  my  only  rock,  I  fly, 

Thy  mercy  in  Thy  justice  praise. 

The  mystic  mazes  of  Thy  will. 
The  shadows  of  celestial  light, 

Are  past  the  powers  of  human  skill, 
But  what  the  Eternal  acts,  is  right. 

Oh,  teach  me  in  the  trying  hour. 
When    anguish    swells    the   dewy 
tear, 

To  still  my  sorrows,  own  thy  power. 
Thy  goodness  love,  thy  justice  fear. 

If  in  this  bosom  aught  but  Thee, 
Encroaching,   sought  a  boundless 
sway, 

Omniscience  could  the  danger  see. 
And  mercy  look  the  cause  away. 


Then  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  com- 
plain ? 
Why  drooping,   seek  the  dark  re- 
cess? 
Shake  off  the  melancholy  chain. 
For  God  created  all  to  bless. 

But,  ah !  my  breast  is  human  still ; 

The  rising  sigh,  the  falling  tear, 
My  languid  vitals,  feeble  will. 

The  sickness  of  my  soul  declare. 

But  yet,  with  fortitude  resigneil, 
I'll  thank  the  infliction  oftheblow, 

Forbid  my  sigh,  compose  niy  mind, 
Nor  let  the  gush  of  misery  flow. 

The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night 
Wiiich  on  my  sinking  spirit  steals 

Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light. 
Which  God,  my  East,  my  Sun,  re- 
veals. 


Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

THE  PARSON. 

A  GOOD  man  there  was  of  religion, 
That  was  a  poore  parson  of  a  town. 
But  rich  he  was  of  holy  thought  and 

work ; 
He  was  also  a  learned  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Christes   gospel  truly   woulde 

preach ; 
His    parishens    devoutly  would    he 

teach ; 
Benign  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversity  full  patient; 
And     such    he    was    yproved    ofte 

sith^s ; 
Full  loth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his 

tithes ; 
But  rather  would  he  given  out  of 

doubt 
Unto  his  poor  parishens  about 
Of  his  off' ring,  and  eke  of  his  sub- 
stance ; 
He  could  in  little  thing  have  suffi- 

sance : 
Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  fai 

asunder, 


CHAUCER, 


811 


But  he  ne  left  nought  for  no  rain  nor 
thunder,  ^ 

In  sickness  and  in  mischief,  to  visit 

The  farthest  in  his  parish  much  and 
lite, 

Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a 
staff: 

This  noble  'nsample  to  his  sheep  he 
gaf, 

That  first  he  wrought,  and  after- 
ward he  taught. 

Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes 
caught, 

And  this  figure  he  added  eke  thereto. 

That,  if  gold  ruste,  what  should  iron 
do? 

For,  if  a  priest  be  foul  on  whom  we 
trust. 

No  wonder  is  a  lewfed  man  to  rust; 

For  shame  it  is,  that  if  a  priest  take 


To  see  a  "fouled"   shepherd   and 
clean  sheep: 

Well  ought  a  priest  ensample  for  to 
give 

By  his  cleanness  how  his  sheep  should 
live. 
He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hire, 

And  let  his  sheep  accumbred  in  the 
mire, 

And  ran  unto  London  unto  Saint 
Poule's 

To  seeken  him  a  chantery  for  souls, 

Or  with  a  brotherhood  to  be  withold; 

But  dwelt  at  home  and  kept^  well  his 
fold, 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  mis- 
carry; 

He  was  a  shepherd    and    no  mer- 
cenary; 

As  though  he  holy  were  and  virtuous, 

He  was  to  sinful  men  not  dispitous, 

Ne    of    his    speeche    dangerous   ne 
digne; 

But   in    his    teaching  discreet  and 
benign. 

To  drawen  folk  to  heaven  with  f  airi- 
ness, 

By  good  ensample,  was  his  business; 

But  it  were  any  person  obstinate, 

What   so  he  were  of  high   or  low 
estate. 

Him  would  he  snibben  sharply  for 
the  nones : 


A  better  priest  I  trow  that  no  where 
none  is. 

He  waited  after  no  pomp  or  rever- 
ence, 

Ne  maked  him  no  spiced  conscience ; 

But  Christes  lore,  and  his  apostles 
twelve 

He  taught,  but  first  he  followed  it 
himselve. 


GOOD  COUNSEL. 

Fly  fro  the  press,  and  dwell  with 

soothfastnesse. 
Suffice  unto  thy  good  though  it  be 

small. 
For  hoard  hath  hate,  and  climbing 

tickleness, 
Press  hath  envy,  and  weal  is  blent 

over  all. 
Savour  no  more  than  thee  behove 

shall. 
Rede  well  thyself  that  other  folke 

canst  rede ; 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no 

drede. 

Pain^  thee  not  each  crooked  to  re- 
dress 
In  trust  of  her  that  turneth  as  a 

ball; 
Great  rest  standeth  in  little   busi- 

nesse, 
Beware   also  to  spume  against  an 

awl. 
Strive  not  as  doth  a  crocks  with  a 

wall; 
Deeme  thyself  that  demest  others* 

deed; 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no 

drede. 

That  thee  is  sent  receive  in  buxom- 

nesse ; 
The  wrastling  of  this  world  asketh  a 

fall. 
Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  a  wilder- 

nesse. 
Forth,  pilgrim!  forth,  beast,  out  of 

thy  stall ! 
Look^  up  on  high,  and  thanks  God 

of  all! 


«12 


CHENEY— COOK. 


Waive  thy  lusts,  and  let  thy  ghost 

thee  lead ; 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no 

drede. 


TO  HIS  EMPTY  PURSE. 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  none  other 

wight 
Complaine  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere, 
I  am  sorry  now  that  ye  be  light. 
For,  certes,  ye  now  make  me  heavy 

chere, 
Me  were  as  lefe  laid  upon  a  here. 
For  which  unto  your  mercy  thus  I 

crie, 
Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 

Now  vouchsafe    this    day  or  it  be 

night. 
That  I  of  you  the  blissful  sowne  may 

here, 
Or  see    your   color  like  the  sunne 

bright. 
That  of  yelowness  had  never  pere, 
Ye  be  my  life,  ye  be  my  hertes  stere, 
Queene  of  comfort  and  good  com- 

panie, 
Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 

Now  purse,  that  art  to  me  my  lives 

light. 
And  saviour,  as  downe  in  this  world 

here. 
Out  of  this  towne  helpe  me  by  your 

might, 
Sith  that  you  woll  not  be  my  treasure. 
For  I  am  shave  as  nere  as  any  frere. 
But  I  pray  unto  your  courtesie. 
Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 


John  Vance  Cheney. 

MAY. 

When  beeches  brighten  early  May, 
And  young  grass  shines  along  her 

way; 
When  April  willows  meet  the  breeze 
Like  softest  dawn  among  the  trees: 


When  smell  of  spring  fills  all  the  air, 
And  meadows  bloom,  and  blue-birds 

pair; 
When  love  first  laves  her  sunny  head 
Over  the  brook  and  lily-bed; 
Nothing  of  sound  or  sight  to  grieve 
From  cheering  morn  to  quiet  eve. 
My  heart  will  not,  for  all  its  ease, 
Forget  the  days  to  follow  these. 
This  loveliness  shall  be  betrayed, 
This  happiest  of  music  played 
From  field  to  field,  by  stream  and 

bough, 
Shall  silent  be,  as  tuneful  now; 
The  silver  launch  of  thistles  sail 
Adown  the  solitary  vale; 
The  blue  solicitude  of  sky 
Bent  over  beauty  doomed  to  die, 
With  nightly  mist  shall  witness  here 
The  yielded  glory  of  the  year. 


Clarence  Cook. 

ON  ONE    WHO  DIED  IN  MA  Y. 
(J.  H.  E.,  May  3,  1870). 

Why,  Death,  what  dost  thou  here, 

This  time  o'year  ? 
Peach-blow  and  apple-blossom ; 
Clouds,  white  as  my  love's  bosom; 
Warm  wind  o'  the  west 
Cradling  the  robin's  nest; 
Young  meadows  hasting  their  green 

laps  to  fill 
With  golden  dandelion  and  daffodil ; 
These  are  fit  sights  for  spring ; 
But,  oh,  thou  hateful  thing. 
What  dost  thou  here? 

Why,  Death,  what  dost  thou  here, 

This  time  o'  year  ? 
Fair,  at  the  old  oak's  knee. 
The  young  anemone; 
Fair,  the  plash  places  set 
With  dog-tooth  violet; 

The  first  sloop-sail, 

The  shad-flower  pale; 
Sweet  are  all  sights. 
Sweet  are  all  sounds  of  spring; 
But  thou,  thou  ugly  thing, 

What  dost  thou  here.'' 


COOLIDQE. 


813 


Dark  Death  let  fall  a  tear. 

Why  am  I  here  ? 
Oh,  heart    ungrateful  !     Will  man 

never  know 
I  am  his  friend,  nor  ever  was  his  foe  ? 
Whose  the  sweet  season,  if  it  be  not 

mine  ? 
Mine,  not  the  bobolink's,  that  song 

divine, 
Chasing  the  shadows  o'er  the  flying 

wheat ! 
'Tis  a  dead  voice,  not  his,  that  sounds 

so  sweet. 
Whose  passionate  heart  burns  in  this 

flaming  rose 
But  his,  whose  passionate  heart  long 

since  lay  still  ? 
Whose  wan  hope  pales  this  snow- 
like lily  tall, 

Beside  the  garden  wall, 
But  his,  whose  radiant  eyes  and  lily 

grace. 
Sleep  in  the  grave  that  crowns  yon 

tufted  hill  ? 

All  hope,  all  memory, 
Have  their  deep  springs  in  me ; 
And  love,  that  else  might  fade. 
By  me  immortal  made, 
Spurns  at  the  grave,  leaps  to  the  wel- 
coming skies. 
And  burns  a  steadfast  star  to  stead- 
fast eyes. 


Susan  Coolidge 

(sab AH  WOOLSEY). 
ONE   LESSER  JOY. 

What   is  the  dearest  happiness  of 
heaven  ? 
Ah,  who  shall  say! 
So  many  wonders,  and  so  wondrous 

fair. 
Await  the  soul  who,  just  arrived 
there 
In  trance  of  safety,  sheltered  and  for- 
given, 
Opens  glad  eyes  to  front  the  eter- 
iial  day: 


Relief  from  earth's  corroding  discon- 
tent. 
Relief  from  pain. 
The    satisfaction     of    perplexing 

fears. 
Full  compensation  for  the    long, 
hard  years. 
Full  understanding  of  the  Lord's  in- 
tent. 
The  things  that  were  so  puzzling 
made  quite  plain: 

And  all  astonished  joy  as,  to  the  spot, 
From  further  skies. 
Crowd  our    beloved    with    white 
winged  feet. 

And  voices  than  the  chiming  harps 
more  sweet. 

Faces  whose  fairness  we  had  half  for- 
got. 
And  outstretched  hands,  and  wel- 
come in  their  eyes. 

Heart  cannot  image  forth  the  endless 
store 
We  may  but  guess. 
But  this  one  lesser  joy  I  hold  my 

own : 
All  shall  be  known  in  heaven ;  at 
last  be  known 
The  best  and  worst  of  me ;  the  less 
the  more. 
My  own  shall  know  —  and  shall  not 
love  me  less. 

Oh,  haunting  shadowy  dread  which 
underlies 
All  loving  here! 
We    inly    shiver   as   we   whisper 
low, 
"Oh,  If  they  knew  —  if  they  could 

only  know. 
Could  see  our  naked  souls  without 
disguise  — 
How  they  would   shrink  from  us 
and  pale  with  fear." 

The  bitter  thoughts  we  hold  in  leash 
within 
But  do  not  kill ; 
The  petty  anger  and  the  mean  de- 
sire, 
The     jealousy    which     bums— a 
smoulder! ug  fii-e — 


8U 


COOLIDGE. 


The  slimy  trail  of  half-unnoted  sin, 
The  sordid  wish  which  daunts  the 
nobler  will. 

We  fight  each  day  with  foes  we  dare 
not  name, 
We  fight,  we  fall! 
Noiseless  tlie  conflict  and  unseen 

of  men ; 
We  rise,  are  beaten  down,  and  rise 
again. 
And  all  the  time  we  smile,  we  move 
the  same, 
And  even  to  dearest  eyes  draw  close 
the  veil ; 

But  in  the  blessed  heavens  these  wars 
are  past; 
Disguise  is  o'er! 
With  new  anointed  vision,  face  to 

face. 
We  shall  see  all,  and  clasped  in 
close  embrace 
Shall  watch  the  haunting  shadow  flee 
at  last. 
And  know  as  we  are  knowTi,  and 
fear  no  more. 


MIRACLE. 

Oh  !  not  in  strange  portentous  way 
Christ's  miracles  were  wrought  of 
old. 
The  common  thing,  the  common  clay 
He     touched    and    tinctured,    and 
straightway 
It  grew  to  glory  manifold. 

The  barley  loaves  were  daily  bread 
Kneaded    and   mixed  with   usual 
skill; 
No  care  was  given,  no  spell  was  said, 
But  when  the  Lord  had  blessed,  they 
fed 
The  multitude  upon  the  hill. 

The  hemp  was  sown  'neath  common 
sun, 

Watered  by  common  dews  and  rain, 
Of  which  the  fisher's  nets  were  spun; 
Nothing  was  prophesied  or  done 

To  mark  it  from  the  other  grain. 


Coarse,  brawny  hands  let  down  the 
net 
When  the  Lord  spake  and  ordered 
so; 
They  hauled  the  meshes,  heavy-wet, 
Just  as  in  other  days,  and  set 
Their  backs  to  labor,  bending  low ; 

But  quivering,  leaping  from  the  lake 
The  marvellous   shining    bm-dens 
rise 
Until  the  laden  meshes  break. 
And  all  amazed,  no  man  spake 
But  gazed  with  wonder  in  his  eyes. 

So  still,  dear  Lord,  in  every  place 

Thou  standest  by  the  toiling  folk, 
With  love  and  pity  in  Thy  face. 
And  givest  of  Thy  help  and  grace 
To  those  who  meekly  bear  the  yoke. 

Not  by  strange  sudden  change  and 
spell. 
Baffling    and    darkening    nature's 
face; 
Thou  takest  the  things  we  know  so 

well 
And  buildest  on  them  Thy  miracle  — 
The  heavenly  on  the  common-place. 

The  lives  which  seem  so  poor,  so  low, 
The  hearts  which  are  so  cramped 
and  dull. 
The  baffled  hopes,  the  impulse  slow, 
Thou  takest,  touchest  all,  and  lo! 
They  blossom  to  the  beautiful. 

We  need  not  wait  for  thunder-peal 
Kesounding  from  a  mount  of  fire 
While  round  our  daily  paths  we  feel 
Thy  sweet  love  and  Thy  power  to  heal 
Working  in  us  Thy  full  desire. 


INFLUENCE. 

Couched  in  the  rocky  lap  of  hills 
The  lake's  blue  waters  gleam, 

And  thence  in  linked  and  measured 
rills 
Down  to  the  valley  stream, 

To  rise  again,  led  higher  and  higher. 

And  slake  the  city's  hot  desire. 


CORNWELL. 


815 


High  as  the  lake's  bright  ripples  shine 

So  higli  the  water  goes ; 
But  not  a  drop  that  air-drawn  line 

Passes  or  overflows. 
Though  man  may  strive  and    man 

may  woo, 
The  stream  to  its  own  law  is  true. 

Vainly  the  lonely  tarn,  its  cup 
Holds  to  the  feedhig  skies; 

Unless  the  source  be  lifted  up, 
The  streamlets  cannot  rise. 

By  law  inexorably  blent. 

Each  is  the  other's  measurement. 

Ah,  lonely  tarn!  ah,  striving  rill! 

So  yearn  these  souls  of  ours. 
And  beat  with  sad  and  urgent  will 

Against  the  unheeding  powers. 
In  vain  is  longing,  vain  is  force. 
No  stream  goes  higher  than  its  source. 


Henry  S.  Cornwell 


THE  SPIDER. 

Spinner  of  the  silken  snare, 
Fell  Arachne  in  your  lair, 
Tell  me,  if  your  powers  can  tell 
How  you  do  your  work  so  well  ? 

Weaving  on  in  light  and  dark, 
Segment  and  concentric  arc. 
Lace-like,  gossamer  designs. 
Strict  to  geometric  lines ; 

Perfect  to  the  utmost  part, 
Occult,  exquisite  of  art,  — 
How  are  all  these  wonders  bred 
In  your  atom  of  a  head  ? 

Propositions  here  involved 
Wit  of  man  has  never  solved; 
Demonstrations  hard  to  find 
A.re  as  crystal  to  your  mind. 

How  in  deepest  dungeon-glooms, 
Do  your  Lilliputian  looms 
Work  such  miracles  as  these,  — 
Faultless,  fairy  filigrees  ? 


Careless  flies  that  hither  flit 
Come  to  die ;  but  there  you  sit. 
Feeling  with  your  fingers  fine 
Each  vibrating,  pulse-like  line; 

Eager  to  anticipate 
Hourly  messages  of  fate,  — 
Funeral  telegrams  that  say 
Here  is  feasting  one  more  day  ? 

Spider,  only  He  can  tell 
How  you  do  your  work  so  well. 
Who  in  life's  mysterious  ways 
Knows  the  method  of  the  maze. 


THE  DRAGON-FLY. 

When  brooks  of    summer  shallow 

nm. 
And  fiercely  glows  the  ardent  sim ; 
Where  waves  the  blue-flag  tall  and 

dank. 
And    water-weeds    grow    rich    and 

rank. 
The  flaunting  dragon-fly  is  seen, 
A  winged  spindle,  gold  and  green. 

Born    of    the    morning    mists    and 

dews, 
He  darts  —  a  flash  of  jewelled  hues  — 
Athwart  the  waterfall,  and  flings, 
From  his  twice-duplicate  wet  wings, 
Diamonds    and    sapphires    such    as 

gleam 
And  vanish  in  a  bridesmaid's  dream! 

Sail  not,  O  dragon-fly,  too  near 
The  lakelet's  bosom,  dark  and  clear! 
For,  lurking  in  its  depths  below, 
The  hungry  trout,  thy  fatal  foe, 
Doth  watch  to  snatch  thee,  unaware. 
At  once  from  life,  and  light  and  air! 

O  brilliant  fleck  of  summer's  prime. 
Enjoy  thy  brief,  fleet  span  of  time ! 
Full     soon    chill     autumn's    frosty 

breath 
Shall  blow  for  thee  a  wind  of  death. 
And  dash  to  dust  thy  gaudy  sheen  — 
Thy    glittering    mail    of    gold    and 

green! 


816 


COXE—CRASHAW. 


Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe. 

WATCHWORDS. 

We  are  living  —  we  are  dwelling 
In  a  grand  and  awful  time ; 

In  an  age,  on  ages  telling, 
To  be  living  —  is  sublime. 

Hark!  the  waking  up  of  nations, 
Gog  and  Magog  to  the  fray : 

Hark!  what  sound eth,  is  creation's 
Groaning  for  its  latter  day. 

Hark !  the  onset !  will  you  fold  your 
Faith-clad  arms  in  lazy  lock  ? 

Up,  oh,  up !  for,  drowsy  soldier, 
Worlds  are  charging  to  the  shock. 

Worlds    are    charging  —  heaven  be- 
holding ! 

You  have  but  an  hour  to  fight : 
Now,  the  blazoned  cross  unfolding, 

On  —  right  onward,  for  the  right! 

What!  still  hug  your  dreamy  slum- 
bers? 
'Tis  no  time  for  idling  play. 
Wreaths,  and  dance,  and  poet-num- 
bers. 
Flout  them,  we  must  work  to-day ! 

Oh !  let  all  the  soul  within  you 
For  the  truth's  sake  go  abroad! 

Strike!  let  every  nerveand  sinew 
Tell  on  ages— tell  for  God! 


Richard  Crashaw. 

LINES   ON  A  PR  A  YER-BOOK  SENT 
TO  MRS.  R. 

Lo!  here  a  little  volume,  but  large 
book, 
(Fear  it  not,  sweet, 
It  is  no  hypocrite) 
Much  larger  in  itself  than  in  its  look. 
It  is,  in  one  rich  handful,  heaven  and 
all  — 


Heaven's  royal  hosts  encamp' d  thus 

small ; 
To  prove  that  true,  schools  used  to 

tell, 
A  thousand  angels  in  one  point  can 

dwell. 

It  is  love's  great  artillery. 

Which    here     contracts    itself,    and 
comes  to  lie 

Close  couched  in  your  white  bosom, 
and  f  roin  thence. 

As    from    a   snowy   fortress   of   de- 
fence, 

Against  the  ghostly  foe  to  take  your 
part, 

And  fortify  the  hold  of  your  chaste 
heart ; 

It  is  the  armory  of  light : 

Let  constant  use  but  keep  it  bright, 
You'll  find  it  yields 

To  holy  hands  and  humble  hearts. 
More  swords  and  shields 

Than  sin  hath  snares  or  hell  hath 
darts. 

Only  be  sure 

The  hands  be  pure 
That  hold  these  weapons,  and  the 
eyes 

Those  of  turtles,  chaste  and  true. 
Wakeful  and  wise. 

Here  is  a  friend  shall  fight  for 
you. 
Hold    but    this    book    before    your 

heart, 
Let  prayer  alone  to  play  his  part. 
But  oh !  the  heart 
That  studies  this  high  art 
Must  be  a  sure  housekeeper, 
And  yet  no  sleeper. 

Dear  soul,  be  strong, 
Mercy  will  come  ere  long, 
And  bring  her  bosom  full  of  bless- 
ings — 
Flowers  of  never  fading  graces. 
To  make  immortal  dressings. 

For  worthy    souls    whose    wise 
embraces 
Store  up  themselves  for  Him  who  is 

alone 
The  spouse  of  virgins,  and  the  virgin's 
sou. 


DE  VERE  —  DODOE, 


817 


But  if  the  noble  Bridegroom,  when 

He  come, 
Shall  find  the  wandering  heart  from 
home, 

Leaving  her  chaste  abode 

To  gad  abroad 
Amongst  the  gay  mates  of  the  god  of 
flies; 

To  take  her  pleasure  and  to  play, 

And  keep  the  devil's  holiday; 

To  dance  in  the  smishine  of  some 
smiling 

But  beguiling 
Sphere  of  sweet  and  sugared  lies ; 
Of  all  this  hidden  store 
Of  blessmgs,  and  ten  thousand  more 

Doubtless  he  will  unload 
Himself  some  other  where ; 

And  pour  abroad 
His  precious  sweets, 
On  the  fair  soul  whom  first  he  meets. 

Ofair!  O  fortunate!  Orich!  O  dear! 

O !  happy,  and  thrice  happy  she, 
Dear  silver-breasted  dove, 

Whoe'er  she  be, 
Whose  early  love. 
With  winged  vows, 
Makes  haste  to  meet  her  morning 

spouse. 
And  close  with  his  immortal  kisses! 
Happy  soul !  who  never  misses 

To  improve  that  precious  hour; 
And  every  day 
Seize  her  sweet  prey, 
All  fresh  and  fragrant  as  he  rises. 

Dropping  with  a  balmy  shower, 
A  delicious  dew  of  spices. 
Oh !  let  that  happy  soul  hold  fast 
Her  heavenly  armful :  she  shall  taste 

At  once  ten  thousand  paradises : 
She  shall  have  power 
To  rifle  and  deflower 
The  rich  and  rosal  spring  of  those 

rare  sweets, 
Which  with  a  swelling  bosom  there 

she  meets ; 
Boundless   and    infinite,  bottomless 

treasures 
Of  pure  inebriating  pleasures. 
Happy  soul !  she  shall  discover 

What  joy,  what  bliss, 

How  many  heavens  at  once  it  is 
To  have  a  God  become  her  lover. 


Mary  Ainge  De  Vere. 

A  LOVE  SONG. 

His  love  hath  filled  my  life's  fair  cup 

Full  to  its  crystal  brim; 
The  dancing  bubbles  crowding  up 

Are  dreams  of  him. 

I  work,  and  every  thread  I  draw 

Sets  in  a  thought,  — 
The  letter  of  Love's  tender  law 

In  patience  wrought. 

I  serve  his  meals,  — the  fruit  and 
bread 

Are  sound  and  sweet: 
But  that  invisible  feast  I  spread 

For  gods  were  meet  I 

I  pray  for  him.    All  else  I  do 

Fades  far  away 
Before  the    thrill  that    smites    me 
through. 

The  while  I  pray : 

Ah,  God,  be  good  to  him,  my  own, 

Who,  on  my  breast, 
Sleeps,  with  soft  dimpled  hands  out- 
thrown, 

A  child  at  rest ! 


Mary  B.  Dodge. 

LOSS. 

I  LOST  my  treasures  one  by  one. 
Those  joys  the  world  holds  dear; 

Smiling,  I  said  "  To-morrow's  sun 
Wiirbring  us  better  cheer." 

For  faith  and  love  were  one.    Glad 
faith ! 

All  loss  is  naught  save  loss  of  faith. 

My  truant  joys  come  trooping  back, 
And  trooping  friends  no  less ; 

But  tears  fall  fast  to  meet  the  lack 
Of  dearer  happiness. 

For  faith    and    love  are  two.    Sad 
faith ! 

'Tis  loss  indeed,  the  loss  of  faith. 


818 


DONNE  — DORR. 


John  Donne. 

THE  FAREWELL. 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away, 
And  whisper  to  their  souls  to  go; 
Whilst  some  of  their  sad  friends  do 

say, 
The  breath  goes  now  —  and  some  say, 

no; 

So  let  us  melt  and  make  no  noise. 
No    tear-floods,    nor    sigh-tempests 

move ; 
'Twere  profanation  of  our  joys 
To  tell  the  laity  our  love. 

Moving  of  th'  earth  brings  harms  and 

fears, 
Men  reckon  what  it  did,  and  meant : 
But  trepidation  of  the  spheres, 
Though  greater  far  is  innocent. 

Dull,  sublunary  lovers'  love 
(Whose  soul  is  sense)  cannot  admit 
Absence,  because  it  doth  remove 
Those  things  which  alimented  it. 

But  we're  by  love  so  much  refined. 
That  ourselves  know  not  what  it  is, 
Inter-assured  of  the  mind, 
Careless  eyes,  lips,  and  hands  to  miss. 

Om*  two  souls,  therefore  (which  are 

one), 
Though  I  must  go,  endure  not  yet 
A  breach,  but  an  expansion. 
Like  gold  to  airy  thinness  beat. 

If  they  be  tw6,  they  are  two  so 
As  stiff  twin  compasses  are  two ; 
Thy  soul,  the  fixed  foot,  makes  no 

show 
To  move,  but  doth,  if  th'  other  do. 

And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit, 
Yet  when  the  other  far  doth  roam, 
It  leans,  and  hearkens  after  it. 
And  grows  erect  as  that  comes  home. 

Such  wilt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must 
Like  th'  other  foot,  obliquely  run ; 
Thy  firmness  makes  my  circles  just, 
And  makes  me  end  where  I  begun. 


Henry  Ripley  Dorr. 

DOOR  AND   WINDOW. 

There  is  a  room,  a  stately  room, 
Now  filled  with  light,  now  wrapped 
in  gloom. 

There  is  a  door,  a  steel-clad  door, 
Lined  with  masses  of  hammered  ore. 


Opened  only  by  hand  of  Fate  I 

There  is  a  window,  broad  and  old, 
Barred  with  irons  of  massive  mould ; 

Back  from  the  window,  closed  and 

fast. 
Stretches  the  vista  of  the  Past ; 

A  lengthening  vista,  faint  and  dim, 
Reacliing  beyond  the  horizon's  rim. 

Men  may  wait  at  the  window-sill 
And  listen,  listen  —  but  all  is  still. 

Men  may  wait  till   their  hairs  are 

white, 
Through  the  hours  of  day  and  night ; 

Men    may   shower    their  tears  like 

rain 
And  mourn  that  they  cannot  pass 

again ; 

Over  the  pathway  of  the  Past ; 

But  travelled  first,  it  is  travelled  last! 

Turn  with  me  to  the  iron  door 
Many  a  mortal  has  stood  before ! 

Lift  the  latch  ?    It  is  fastened  down ! 
The  hinges  are  flecked  with  a  rusty 
brown. 

Batter  away  at  its  massive  plates! 
Hark!    do    you    hear    the    mocking 
Fates  ? 

'Tis   only  the   echoes   that  go  and 

come 
Like  the  measm-ed  beats  of  a  muffled 

drum! 


DYER. 


819 


Your   hands    are    bleeding?     Then 

come  away, 
Perliaps,  al  length,  you  have  learned 

to-day 

That  only  when  under  the  grass  or 

snow 
We  learn  what  mortals  must  die  to 

know ; 

That  only  when  we  are   still  and 

cold 
T  he  door  swings  wide  on  its  hinges 

old! 


Sir  Edward  Dyer. 

MY  MIND  TO   ME  A  KINGDOM  IS. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  ; 

Such  perfect  joy  tlierein  I  find 
As  far  exceeds  all  earthly  bliss 

That  God  or  Nature  hath  assigned; 
Though    much    I    want    that    most 

would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live ;  this  is  my  stay, 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway ; 
Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  sup- 
plies. 
Lo!  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king! 
Content  with  that   my   mind  doth 
bring. 

I  see  how  plenty  surfeits  oft, 

And  hasty  climbers  soonest  fall; 
I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 
These  get  with  toil,  and  keep  with 

fear; 
Such    cares  my  mind   could   never 
bear. 

No  princely  pomp  nor  wealthy  store, 
No  force  to  win  the  victory, 

No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 
No  shape  to  win  a  lover's  eye,  — 

To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall ; 

For  why,  my  mind  despiseth  all. 


Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they 
crave ; 
I  little  have,  yet  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they 
have ; 
And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  poor,  I  rich ;  they  beg,  I  give : 
They  lack,  I  lend;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss, 
I  grudge  not  at  another's  gain : 

No  worldly  wave  my  mind  can  toss ; 
I  brook  that  is  another's  bane. 

I  fear  no  foe,  nor  fawn  on  friend; 

I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  bliss ; 

I    weigh    not    Crasus'   wealth    a 
straw ; 
For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is : 

I  fear  not  fortmie's  fatal  law; 
My  mind  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beauty  bright,  or  force  of  love. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will ; 

I  wander  not  to  seek  for  more : 
Hike  the  plain,  I  climb  no  hill; 

In  greatest  storms  I  sit  on  shore. 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toil  in  vain 
To  get  what  musf  belost  again. 

I  kiss  not  where  I  wish  to  kill ; 

I  feign  not  love    where    most    I 
hate; 
I  break  no  sleep  to  win  my  will ; 

I  wait  not  at  the  mighty' s  gate. 
I  scorn  no  poor,  I  fear  no  rich ; 
I  feel  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  nor  cart  I  like  nor  loathe; 

Extremes  are  counted  worst  of  all ; 
The  golden  mean  betwixt  them  both 

Doth  surest  sit,  and  fears  no  fall ; 
This  is  my  choice;  for  why,  I  find 
No  wealth  Is  like  a  quiet  mind. 

My   wealth   is  health    and    perfect 
ease; 
My  conscience  clear  my  chief  de- 
fence; 
I  never  seek  by  bribes  to  please, 
Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 
Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  II 


820 


GALLAGHER— GAY, 


William  D.  Gallagher. 

TWO  APRILS. 

When  last  the  maple  bud  was  swell- 
ing, 
When    last   the    crocus    bloomed 
below, 
Thy  heart  to  mine  its  love  was  telling; 
Thy  soul  with  mine  kept  ebb  and 
flow : 
Again  the  maple  bud  is  swelling, 

Again  the  crocus  blooms  below:  — 
In  heaven  thy  heart  its  love  is  telling. 
But  still  our  souls  keep  ebb  and 
flow. 

When  last  the  April  bloom  was  fling- 
ing 
Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  spring, 
In  forest  aisles  thy  voice  was  ring- 
ing, 
Where  thou  didst  with  the  red-bird 
sing. 
Again  the  April  bloom  is  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  spring, 
But  now  in  heaven  thy  voice  is  ring- 
ing, 
Where  thou  dost  with  the  angels 


THE  LABORER. 

Stand  up,  erect!     Thou  hast  the 
form 
And  likeness  of  thy  God!  —  who 
more '? 
A  soul  as  dauntless  mid  the  storm 
Of  daily  life,  a  heart  as  warm 
And  pure  as  breast  e'er  wore. 

What  then  ?    Thou  art  as  true  a  man 
As  moves  the  human  mass  among ; 
As  much  a  part  of  the  great  plan, 
As  with  creation's  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  ?    The  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief  ? 
The  great,  who  coldly  pass  thee  by. 
With  proud  step  and  averted  eye  ? 
JSTay !  nurse  not  such  belief. 


If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast, 
What  were  the  proud  one's  scorn  to 
thee? 

A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 

Aside,  as  idly  as  the  blast, 
The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 

No :  —  uncurbed  passions,  low  desires, 

Absence  of  noble  self-respect, 
Death,  in  the  breast's  consuming  fires, 
To  that  high  nature  which  aspires 
Forever,  till  thus  checked ; 

These  are  thine  enemies  -  -  thy  worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  thy  lonely  lot : 
Thy  labor  and  thy  lot  accursed, 
Oh !  stand  erect,  and  from  them  burst, 

And  longer  suffer  not. 

Thou  art  thyself  thine  enemy. 

The  great!  what  better  they  than 
thou  ? 
As  theirs,  is  not  thy  will  as  free  ? 
Has  God  with  equal  favors  thee 

Neglected  to  endow. 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not — 'tis  but 
dust ! 
Nor  place  —  uncertain  as  the  wind ! 
But  that  thou  hast,  which,  with  thy 

crust 
And  water,  may  despise  the  lust 
Of  both  —  a  noble  mind. 

With  this,  and  passions  under  ban, 
True  faith,  and  holy  trust  in  God, 

Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 

Look  up,  then,  that  thy  little  span 
Of  life  may  be  well  trod. 


William  Wheeler  Gay. 

APOLLO  BELVEDERE. 

SuPBEME  among  a  race  of  gods  he 
stands, 
His    strong    limbs    strained    and 
quivering  with  might ; 
His  heart  exulting,  as  his  foemen's 
bands 
Before  the  dreadful  aegis,  melt  in 
flight. 


OOSSE. 


821 


So  once  he  strode  on  red  Scamander's 
plain 
Breasting  at  Hector's  side  the  storm 
of  spears ; 
Perchance  in  dreams  he  shakes  the 
shield  again 
And,   shouting,   fills   the  Grecian 
host  with  fears. 

Far-darting  god  of  Homer,  dost  thou 
dream 
That  Time  still  wears  a  crown  of 
sunny  hair  ? 
That  dawn-faced  Daphne  sings  hy 
Peneus'  stream. 
And  Dian  routs  the  roebuck  from 
his  lair  ? 

Know,  shrineless  god,  that  temples 
sink  to  dust ; 
Creeds  moulder  with  the  heart  that 
gave  them  birth ; 
Time  is  a  despot,  and  gods,  even, 
must 
Bow  to  his  will  like  mortals  of  the 
earth. 

Look  close!  the  crowds  that  throng 
this  Belvedere 
Are  not  gray-bearded  elders  laden 
well 
With  costly  gifts,  from  Athens  sent 
to  hear 
The  fateful  murmurs  issue  from  thy 
cell. 

No  longer  now  they  tremble  as  they 
stand 
Before     thy     face,    remembering 
Niobe; 
Noi  reverence  thee,  but  him  whose 
mortal  hand 
Gave  thee  the  gift  of  immortality. 


Edmund  W.  Gosse. 

VILLANELLE. 

WouLDST  thou  not  be  content  to  die 
When    low-hung    fruit    is    hardly 
clinging 
And  golden  autumn  passes  by  ? 


If  we  could  vanish,  thou  and  1 
While  the   last  woodland  bird  is 
singing, 
Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die  ? 

Deep  drifts  of  leaves  in  the  forest  lie, 
Red  vintage  that  the  frost  is  fling- 
ing, 
And  golden  autumn  passes  by. 

Beneath  this  delicate,  rose-gray  sky. 
While  sunset  bells  are  faintly  ring- 
ing, 
Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die  ? 

For  wintry  webs  of  mist  on  high 
Out  of  the  muflied  earth  are  spring- 
ing, 
And  golden  autumn  passes  by. 

Oh,  now,  when  pleasures  fade  and  fly, 
And  hope  her  southward  flight  is 
winging, 
Wouldst  thou  not  be  content  to  die  ? 

Lest  winter  come,  with  wailing  cry. 

His  cniel,  icy  bondage  bringing, 
When  golden  autumn  hath  passed  by, 

And  thou  with  many  a  tear  and  sigh, 
While  Life  her  wasted  hands  is 
wringing, 
Shalt  pray  in  vain  for  leave  to  die 
When  golden  autumn  hath  passed  by. 


SUNSHINE  IN  MARCH. 

Where  are  you,  Sylvia,  where  ? 

For  our  own  bird  the  woodpecker,  is 
here. 

Calling  on  you  with  cheerful  tap- 
pings loud ! 

The  breathing  heavens  are  full  of 
liquid  light; 

The  dew  is  on  the  meadow  like  a 
cloud ; 

The  earth  is  moving  in  her  green 
delight  — 

Her  spiritual  crocuses  shoot  through, 

And  rathe  hepaticas  in  rose  and  blue ; 

But  snow-drops  that  awaited  you  so 
long 

Died  at  the  thrush's  song. 


822 


GRAY. 


"  Adien,  adieu!"  they  said, 

*'  We  saw  the  skirts  of  glory  fade; 

We  were  the  hopeless  lovers  of  the 

spring, 
Too  young,  as  yet,  for  any  love  of 

ours ; 
She  is  harsh,  not  having  heard  the 

white-throats  sing; 
She  is  cold,  not  knowing'the  tender 

April  showers ; 
Yet  have  we  felt  her,  as  the  buried 

grain 
May  feel  the  rustle  of  the  unfallen 

rain; 
We  have  known  her,  as  the  star  that 

sets  too  soon 
Bows  to  the  unseen  moon." 


David  Gray. 

DIE  DOWN,   O  DISMAL  DAY. 

Die  down,  O  dismal  day,  and  let  me 

live; 
And  come,  blue  deeps,  magnificently 

strewn 
With  colored    clouds,  —large  light, 

and  fugitive,  — 
By  upper  winds  through   pompous 

motions  blown. 
Now  it  is  death  in  life,  —  a  vapor 

dense 
Creeps  round  my  window  till  I  cannot 

see 
The  far  snow-shining  mountains  and 

the  glens 
Shagging  the  mountain-tops.    O  God ! 

make  free 
This  barren  shackled  earth,  so  deadly 

cold,  — 
Breathe  gently  forth  thy  spring,  till 

winter  flies 
In  rude  amazement,  fearful  and  yet 

bold, 
While  she  performs    her    customed 

charities ; 
I  weigh  the  loaded  hours  till  life  is 

bare,  — 
O  God,  for  one  clear  day,  a  snowdrop, 

and  sweet  airl 


IF  IT  MUST  BE. 

If  it  must  be  —  if  it  must  be,  O 
God! 

That  I  die  young  and  make  no  further 
moans ; 

That  miderneath  the  unrespective 
sod, 

In  unescutcheoned  privacy,  my  bones 

Shall  crumble  soon ;  —  then  give  me 
strength  to  bear 

The  last  convulsive  throe  of  too 
sweet  breath ! 

I  tremble  from  the  edge  of  life,  to 
dare 

The  dark  and  fatal  leap,  having  no 
faith, 

No  glorious  yearning  for  the  Apoc- 
alypse; 

But  like  a  child  that  in  the  night- 
time cries 

For  light,  I  cry ;  forgetting  the  eclipse 

Of  knowledge  and  our  human  des- 
tinies— 

O  peevish  and  uncertain  soul!  obey 

The  law  of  patience  till  the  Day. 


WINTRY  WEATHER. 

O  WINTER,  wilt  thou  never,  never 

go? 
O    summer,    but    I    weary  for   thy 
I  coming, 

Longing  once  more  to  hear  the  Luggie 

flow, 
And    frugal   bees  laboriously  hum- 
ming, 
Now  the    east  wind    diseases    the 

infirm, 
And  I  must  crouch  in  corners  from 

rough  weather, 
Sometimes    a    winter     sunset    is    a 

charm  — 
When  the  fired  clouds   compacted, 

burn  together. 
And  the  large  sun  dips  red  behind  the 

hills. 
I,  from  my  window  can  behold  this 

pleasure; 
And  the  eternal  moon  what  time  she 

fills 
Her  orb  with  argent,  treading  a  soft 

measure. 


GRAY  ^H  AVE  ROAL, 


823 


With  queenly  motions  of  a  bridal 
mood, 

Through  the  wide  spaces  of  infini- 
tude. 


Ellis  Gray. 

SUNSHIXE. 

I  SAT  in  a  darkened  chamber, 

Near  by  sang  a  tiny  bird ; 
Through  all  my  deep  pain  and  sad- 
ness, 

A  wonderful  song  I  heard. 

The  birdling  bright  sang  in  the  sun- 
light 

From  out  of  a  golden  tbroat; 
Tbe  song  of  love  he  was  singing 

Grew  sweeter  with  every  note. 

I  opened  my  casement  wider 
To  welcome  the  song  I  heard; 

Straight  into  my  waiting  bosom 
Flew  sunshine  and  song  and  bird. 

No  longer  I  now  am  sighing; 

The  reason  canst  thou  divine  ? 
The  birdling  with  me  abideth, 

And  sunshine  and  song  are  mine. 


Dora  Greenwell. 


THE  SUNFLOWER. 

Till  the  slow  daylight  pale, 
A  willing  slave,  fast  bound  to  one 

above, 
I   wait;    he   seems   to   speed,   and 
change,  and  fail ; 
I  know  he  will  not  move. 

I  lift  my  golden  orb 
To  his,  unsmitten  when  the  roses  die. 
And  in  my  broad  and  burning  disk 
absorb 

The  splendors  of  his  eye. 


His  eye  is  like  a  clear 
Keen  flame  that  searches    through 

me;  I  must  drop 
Upon  my  stalk,  I  cannot  reach  his 
sphere ; 
To  mine  he  cannot  stoop. 

I  win  not  my  desire. 
And  yet  I  fail  not  of  ray  guerdon ;  lo ! 
A    thousand    flickering    darts    and 
tongues  of  fire 

Around  me  spread  and  glow; 

All  rayed  and  crowned,  I  miss 
No  queenly  state  until  the  summer 

wane, 
The  hours  flit  by ;  none  knoweth  of 
my  bliss. 
And  none  has  guessed  my  pain; 

I  follow  one  alone, 
T  track  the  shadow  of  his 

grow 
Most  like  to  him  I  love. 

Of  all  that  shines  below. 


Frances  Ridley  Havergal 


A  UTOBIOGRAPHY. 

AuTOBiOGRAPnY !    So  you  say, 

So  do  I  not  belie^^e ! 
For  no  men  or  women  that  live  to- 
day, 
Be  they  as  good  or  as  bad  as  they 
may, 
Ever  would  dare  to  leave 
In  faintest  pencil  or  boldest  ink. 
All  they  truly  and  really  think; 
What  tbey  have  said  and  what  they 

have  done. 
What  they  have  lived  and  what  they 
have  felt. 
Under  the  stars  or  under  the  sun. 
At  the  touch    of    a    pen  the   dew- 
drops  melt. 
And  the  jewels  are  lost  in  the  grass, 
Though  you  count  the  blades  as 
you  pass. 
At  the  touch  of  a  pen  the  lightning 
is  fixed, 


824 


HAVE  EG  AL. 


An  innocent  streak  on  a  broken 

cloud ; 
And  the  thunder  that  pealed  so 
fierce  and  loud, 
With  musical  echo  is  softly  mixed. 
Autobiography  ?    No ! 
It  never  was  written  yet,  I  trow. 
Grant  that  they  try ! 
Still  they  must  fail ! 
Words  are  too  pale. 
For  the  fervor  and  glow  of  the  lava- 
flow. 

Can   they  paint   the  flash  of   an 

eye? 
How  much  less  the  flash  of  a  heart, 
Or  its  delicate  ripple  and  glimmer 

and  gleam, 
Swift  and  sparkling,  suddenly  dark- 
ling. 
Crimson  and  gold  tints,  exquisite 

soul-tints. 
Changing  like  dawn-flush  touching 

a  dream ! 
Where  is  the  art 
That  shall  give  the  play  of  blending 

lights 
From  the  porphyry  rock  on  the 

pool  below  ? 
Or  the  bird-shadow  traced  on  the 

sunlit  heights 
Of  golden  rose  and  snow  ? 

Tou  say  'tis  a  fact  that  the  books 

exist. 
Printed  and  published  in    Mudie's 
list, 
Some  in  two  volumes,  and  some  in 
one  — 
Autobiographies  plenty.     But  look ! 
I  will  tell  you  what  is  done 
By  the  writers,  confidentially ! 
They  cut  little  pieces  out  of  their 
lives 
And  join  them  together, 
Making  them  up  as  a  readable  book. 

And  call  it  an  autobiography, 
Though  little  enough  of  the  life  sur- 
vives. 

What  if  we  went  in  the  sweet  May 

weather 
To  a  wood  that  I  know  which  hangs 

on  a  hill, 


And    reaches    dow^n    to    a    tinkling 

brook. 
That  sings  the  flowers  to  sleep  at 

night. 
And  calls  them  again  with  the  earliest 

light. 
Under  the  delicate  flush  of  green. 
Hardly  shading  the  bank  below, 
Pale  anemones  peep  between 

The    mossy    stumps    where    the 
violets  grow; 
Wide   clouds     of    bluebells    stretch 
away, 
And  primrose  constellations  rise, — 

Turn  where  we  may, 
Some    new  loveliness   meets    our 
eyes. 
The  first  ^\  bite  butterflies  flit  around, 
Bees    are    murmuring    close   to  the 
ground. 
The  cuckoo's  happy  shout  is  heard. 

Hark  again ! 
Was  it  echo,  or  was  it  bird  ? 
All  the  air  is  full  of  song, 
.  A  carolling  chorus  around  and  above; 
From  the  wood-pigeon's  call  so  soft 

and  long. 
To  merriest  twitter  and  marvellous 

trill. 
Every    one  sings  at  his  own  sweet 

will, 
True  to  the  key-note  of  joyous  love. 

Well,  it  is  lovely  I  is  it  not  ? 
But  we    nmst  not  stay  on  the  fairj^ 
spot. 
So  we  gather  a  nosegay  with  care : 
A    primrose  here  and   a   bluebell 
there. 
And  something  that  we  have  never 
seen. 
Probably    therefore    a    specimen 
rare; 
Stitchwort,  with  stem  of  transparent 
green. 
The  white-veined  woodsorrel,  and 

a  spray 
Of  tender-leaved  and  budding  May. 
We  carry  home  the  fragrant  load, 
In  a  close,  warm  hand,  by  a  dusty 

road; 
The  sun  grows  hotter  every  hour; 
Already  the  woodsorrel  pines  for  the 
shade ; 


EAVERGAL, 


825 


We  watch  it  fade, 
And    throw    away    the    fairy    little 

flower ; 
We  forgot  that  it  could  not  last  an 

hour 
Away  from  the  cool  moss  where  it 

grows. 
Then  the  stitch  worts  droop  and  close ; 
There  is  nothing  to  show  but  a  tangle 

of  green, 
For  the  white-rayed  stars   will    no 

more  be  seen. 
Then  the  anemones,  can  they  sur- 
vive ? 
Even  now  they  are  hardly  alive. 
Ha !  where  is  it,  our  unknown  spray  ? 

Dropped  on  the  way ! 
Perhaps  we    shall    never   find    one 

again. 
At  last  we  come  in  with  the  few  that 
are  left, 
Of  freshness  and  fragrance  bereft; 
A  sorry  display. 
Now,  do  we  say, 
"  Here  is  the  wood  where  we  rambled 

to-day? 
See,  we  have  brought  it  to  you; 
Believe  us,  indeed  it  is  true. 
This  is  the  wood ! "  do  we  say  ? 

So  much  for  the  bright  and  pleasant 

side. 
There  is  another.    We  did  not  bring 
^11  that  was  hidden  under  the  wing 
Of  the  radiant  plumaged  spring. 

We  never  tried 
To  spy,  or  watch,  or  away  to  bear, 
Much  that  was  just  as  truly  there. 
What  have  we  seen  ? 
Hush,  ah,  hush! 
Curled  and  withered  fern  between, 
And  dead  leaves  under  the    living 

green, 
Thick  and  damp.  A  clammy  feather, 
All  that  remains  of  a  singing  thrush 
Killed  by  a  weasel  long  ago. 
In  the  hungiy  winter  weather. 
Nettles  in  unfriendly  row, 
And  last  year's  brambles,  sharp  and 

brown. 
Grimly  guarding  a  hawthorn  crown. 
A  pale  leaf  trying  to  reach  the  light 
!By  a  long  weak  stem,  but  smothered 

down, 


Dying  in  darkness,  with  none  to  see. 
The  rotting  trunk  of  a  willow  tree. 
Leafless,  ready  to  fall  from  the  bank; 
A  poisonous  fungus,  cold  and  white. 
And  a  hemlock  growing  strong  and 

rank. 
A  tuft  of  fur  and  a  ruddy  stain. 
Where  a  wounded  hare  has  escaped 

the  snare. 
Only  perhaps  to  be  caught  again. 
No  specimens  we  bring  of  these. 
Lest  they  should  disturb  our  ease, 
And  spoil  the  stoiy  of  the  May, 
And  make  you  think  our  holiday 
Was  far  less  pleasant  than  we  say. 

Ah  no!    We  write  our  lives  indeed, 
But  in  a  cipher  none  can  read, 
Except  the  author.     He  may  pore 
The  life-accuumlating  lore 

For  evermore. 
And  find  the  records    strange  and 

true. 
Bring  wisdom  old  and  new; 
But  though  he  break  the  seal. 
No  power  has  he  to  give  the  key; 
No  license  to  reveal. 
We  wait  the  all-declaring  day, 
When    love    shall  know  as  it  is 
known. 
Till  then,  the  secrets  of  our  lives  are 
ours  and  God's  alone. 


SONG  FROM  'BRIGHT:' 

Light  after  darkness, 

Gain  after  loss. 
Strength  after  suffering, 

Ciown  after  cross. 
Sweet  after  bitter. 

Song  after  sigh. 
Home  after  wandering, 

Praise  after  cry. 

Sheaves  after  sowing, 

Sun  after  rain. 
Sigh  after  mystery, 

Peace  after  pain. 
Joy  after  sorrow. 

Calm  after  blast, 
Rest  after  weariness. 

Sweet  rest  at  last. 


826 


EAVERGAL. 


Near  after  distant, 
Gleam  after  gloom, 

Love  after  loneliness, 
Life  after  tomb. 

After  long  agony, 
Eapture  of  bliss! 

Eight  was  the  pathway- 
Leading  to  this  I 


FROM  '^ MAKING  POETRY." 

'Tis  not  stringing  rhymes  together 

In  a  pleasant  true  accord ; 
Not  the  music  of  the  metre, 
Not  the  happy  fancies,  sweeter 
Than  a  flower-bell,  honey-stored. 

'T  is  the  essence  of  existence, 

Rarely  rising  to  the  light; 
And  the  songs  of  echo  longest. 
Deepest,  fullest,  truest,  strongest, 

With  your  life-blood  you  will  write. 

With    your    life-blood.      None  will 
know  it. 

You  will  never  tell  them  how. 
Smile!  and  they  will  never  guess  it: 
Laugh!  and  you  will  not  confess  it 

By  your  paler  cheek  and  brow. 

There  must  be  the  tightest  tension 

Ere  the  tone  be  full  and  true ; 
Shallow  lakelets  of  emotion 
Are  not  like  the  spirit-ocean, 
Which  reflects  the  purest  blue. 

Every  lesson -you  shall  utter, 

If  the  charge  indeed  be  yours, 

First  is  gained  by  earnest  learning, 

Carved  in  letters  deep  and  burning 

On  a  heart  that  long  endures. 

Day  by  day  that  wondrous  tablet 
Your  life-poem  shall  receive, 

By  the  hand  of  Joy  or  Sorrow ; 

But  the  pen  can  never  borrow 
Half  the  records  that  they  leave. 

You  will  only  give  a  transcript 
Of  a  life-line  here  and  there. 
Only  just  a  spray-wreath  springing 
Fi'om  the  hidden  depths,  and  flinging 
Broken  rainbows  on  the  air. 


Still,  if  you  but  copy  truly. 

'T  will  be  poetry  indeed. 
Echoing  many  a  heart's  vibration: 
Rather  love  than  admiration 

Earning  as  your  priceless  meed. 


THE  COL  DE  BALM. 

Sunshine  and  silence  on  the  Coi  de 
Balm! 
I  stood  above  the  mists,  above  the 

rush 
Of  all  the  torrents,  when  one  mar- 
vellous hush 

Filled  God's  great  mountain  temple, 
vast  and  calm, 

With  hallelujah  light,  as  seen  through 
silent  psalm :  — 

Crossed  with  one  discord,  only  one. 

For  love 
Cried  out,   and   would  be  heard. 

"  If  ye  were  here, 
O  friends,  so  far  away  and  yet  so 

near. 
Then  were  the    anthem    perfect!" 

And  the  cry 
Threaded  the  concords  of  that  Alpine 

harmony. 

Not  vain  the  same  fond  ciy  if  first  I 

stand 
Upon  the  mountain  of  our  God,  and 

long. 
Even  in  the  glory  and  with  His 

new  song 
Upon  my  lips,  that  you  should  come 

and  share 
The  bliss  of  heaven,  imperfect  still 

till  all  are  there. 

Dear  ones!  shall  it  be  mine  to  watch 
you  come 
Up  from  the  shadows  and  the  val- 
ley mist. 
To  tread  the  jacinth  and  the  ame- 
thyst ; 

To  rest  and  sing  upon  the  stormless 
height. 

In  the  deep  calm  of  love  and  ever- 
lasting light  ? 


HAYNE  —  niLLARD, 


827 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 

LYRIC  OF  ACTION. 

'Tis  the  part  of  a  coward  to  brood 
O'er  the  past  that  is  withered  and 
dead  : 
What  though  the  heart's  roses  are 
ashes  and  dust  ? 
What  though  the  heait's  music  be 

fled? 
Still  shine  the  grand  heavens  o'er- 
head, 
Whence  the  voice  of  an  angel  thrills 

clear  on  the  soul, 
"  Gird  about  thee  thine  armor,  press 
on  to  the  goal!" 

If  the  faults  or  the  crimes  of  thy 
youth 
Are  a  burden  too  heavy  to  bear, 
What  hope  can  rebloom  on  the  deso- 
late waste 
Of  a  jealous  and  craven  despair  ? 
Down!  down  with  the  fetters  of 
fear  ! 
In  the  strength  of  thy  valor  and  man- 
hood arise, 
With  the  faith  that  illumes  and  the 
will  that  defies. 

Too  late!    through    God's    infinite 
world, 
From  His  throne  to  life's  nether- 
most fires, 
Too  late  is  a  phantom  that  flies  at 
the  dawn 
Of  the  soul  that  repents  and  as- 
pires. 
If  pure  thou  hast  made  thy  de- 
sires. 
There's  no  height  the  strong  wings 

of  immortals  may  gain 
Which  in  striving  to  reach,  thou  shalt 
strive  for  in  vain. 

Then  up  to  the  contest  with  fate, 
Unbound   by  the   past   which   is 
dead! 
What  though  the  heart's  roses  are 
ashes  and  dust  ? 
What  though  the  heart's  music  be 
fled? 
Still  shine  the  fair  heavens  o'erhead; 


And  sublime  as  the  angel  that  rules 

in  the  sun 
Beams  the  promise  of  peace  when  the 

conflict  is  won ! 


George  Herbert. 

FBOM  THE  "ELIXIR.'* 

Teach  bie,  my  God  and  King, 

In  all  things  Thee  to  see, 
And  what  I  do  in  anything, 

To  do  it  as  for  Thee. 

All  may  of  Thee  partake; 

Nothing  can  be  so  mean 
Which  with  this  tincture,  for  Thy 
sake. 

Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant  with  this  clause 

Makes  drudgery  divine : 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  Thy  laws, 

Makes  that  and  the  action  fine. 


Aaron  Hill 

HOW  TO  DEAL   WITH  COMMON 
NATURES. 

TENDER-handed  stroke  a  nettle, 
And  it  stings  you  for  your  pains ; 

Grasp  it  like  a  man  of  mettle. 
And  it  soft  as  silk  remains. 

'Tis  the  same  with  common  natures: 
Use  them  kindly,  they  rebel ; 

But  be  rough  as  nutmeg-graters. 
And  the  rogues  obey  you  welL 


F.  A.  HILURD. 

THE   POETS   PEN. 

I  AM  an  idle  reed; 
I  rustle  in  the  whispering  air; 

I  bear  my  stalk  and  seed 
Through  spring-time's  glow  and  sunh 
mer's  srlare. 


828 


HOPKINS. 


And  in  the  fiercer  strife 
Which  winter  brings  to  me  amain, 

Sapless,  I  waste  my  life. 
And,  murmuring  at  my  fate,  com- 
plain. 

1  am  a  worthless  reed ; 
No  golden  top  have  I  for  crown, 

No  flower  for  beauty's  meed, 
No  wreath  for  poet's  high  renown. 

Hollow  and  gaunt,  my  wand 
Shrill  whistles,  bending  in  the  gale ; 

Leafless  and  sad  I  stand. 
And  still  neglected,  still  bewail. 

O  foolish  reed !  to  wail ! 
A  poet  came,  with  downcast  eyes, 

And,  wandering  through  the  dale. 
Saw  thee  and  claimed  thee  for  his 
prize. 

He  plucked  thee  from  the  mire ; 
He  pruned  and  made  of  thee  a  pen. 

And  wrote  in  words  of  fire 
His  flaming  song  to  listening  men ; 

Till  thou,  so  lowly  bred, 
Now  wedded  to  a  nobler  state, 

Utt'rest  such  paeans  overhead 
That  angels  listen  at  their  gate. 


Louisa  Parsons  Hopkins. 

TEMPESTUOUS  DEEPS. 

Passionate,  stormy  ocean, 

Spreading  thine  arms  to  me, 
The  depths  of  my  soul's  emotion 

Surge  with  the  surging  sea: 
Waves  and  billows  go  o'er  me. 

Give  me  thy  strong  right  hand  I 
The  throes  of  my  heart's  vain  struggle 

I  know  thou  wilt  understand. 

Break  with  thy  hidden  anguish, 

Restless  and  yearning  main ! 
Echo  my  sighs;  I  languish, 

Moaning  in  secret  pain. 
The  heart  I  had  trusted  fails  me, 

The  hopes  I  would  rest  in,  flee; 
Woe  upon  woe  assails  me, 

Comfort  me,  answering  sea ! 


Mightily  tossed  with  tempest. 

Lashed  into  seiTied  crest, 
Roaring  and  seething  billows 

Give  thee  nor  peace  nor  rest: 
Oh,  to  thy  heaving  bosom 

Take  me,  wild  sobbing  sea ! 
For  the  whole  earth's  groaning  and 
travail 

Utters  itself  in  thee. 


DECEMBER. 

Blow,  northern  winds! 
To  brace  my  fibres,  knit  my  cords, 
To  gird  my  soul,  to  fire  my  words. 
To     do    my    work, — for  't    is    the 
Lord's, — 

To  fashion  minds. 

Come,  tonic  blasts ! 
Arouse  my  courage,  stir  my  thought. 
Give  nerve  and  spring,  that  as  I  ought 
I  give  my  strength  to  what  is  wrought, 

While  duty  lasts. 

Glow,  arctic  light. 
And  let  my  heart  with    burnished 

steel. 
That  bright  magnetic  flame  reveal 
Which  kindles  purpose,  faith,   and 
zeal 
For  truth  and  right. 

Shine,  winter  skies ! 
That  when  each  brave  day's  work  is 

done, 
I  wait  in  peace,  from  sun  to  sun. 
To  meet  unshamed,  through  victory 
won. 
Your  starry  eyes. 


[Prom  Persephone."] 
EARLY  SUMMER. 

The  chrysalid  with  rapture  stirs ; 
The  water-beetle  feels  more  nigh 
His  glory  of  the  dragon-fly. 

And  nectar  fills  the  flower-spurs. 

Down  in  the  confidential  green 
Of  clover-fields  the  insects  hum. 
While  myriad  creatures  pipe  and 
drum. 

And  live  their  busy  life  unseen. 


HOPKINS. 


829 


The  flowers  of  the  Indian  corn 
Droop  their  fair  feathers  o'er  tlie 

sheath, 
And  all  their  pollen  grains  bequeath 

That  golden  harvests  may  be  born. 


[From  Persephone."] 
LATE  SUMMER. 

The  summer-tide   swells  high  and 
full; 

I  sit  within  the  waving  grass; 

The  scented  breezes  o'er  me  pass, 
The  thistles  shed  their  silky  wool. 

The  ox-eyed  daisies  hail  the  sun, 
And  sprinkle  all  the  acres  bright 
With  golden  stars  of  radiant  light 

Amid  the  feathery  grasses  dun. 

The  plaintive  brook  reflects  the  glow 
Of  rows  of  bleeding  cardinal ; 
The  whippoorwill's  sweet  madrigal 

Breathes  through  the  sunset  soft  and 
low. 

I  see  the  dear  Persephone 

Trailing  her   piu-ple   robes    more 
slow, 

Her  lovely  eyelids  drooping  low, 
And  gazing  pensive  o'er  the  sea. 

The  fringed  gentians  kiss  her  hand, 
The  milkweed  waves  its  soft  adieus ; 
Their  tender  words  she  must  refuse. 

For  dark  steeds  wait  upon  the  strand. 


[From  Persephone."] 
AUTUMN. 

Erewhile  the  sap  has  had  its  will, 
The  bud  has  opened  into  leaf 
The  grain  is  ripening  for  the  sheaf, 

Demeter's  arms  have  had  their  fill. 

The  seed  has  dropped  into  the  mould, 
The  flower  all  its  petals  shed, 
The  rattling  stalks  are  dry  and  dead, 

Persephone  is  still  and  cold. 


For  Nature's  dream  is  all  fulfilled. 
Her  clinging  robes  she  folds  once 

more, 
And  glides  within  her  close-locked 
door. 
For  all  the  wine  of  life  is  spilled. 


HYMN  FROM  "  MOTHERHOCD." 

0  BEAUTIFUL  new  life  within  ray 

bosom, 
New  life,  love-bom,  more  beautiiul 
than  day. 

1  tremble    in    thy  sacred  presence, 

knowing 
What    holy    miracle    attends    my 

way! 
My  heart  is  hushed,  I  hear  between 

its  beating 
The  angel  of  annunciation  say, 
"Hail,  blessed    among   women!" 

while  I  pray. 

O    all-creative    Love !     thy    finger 
touches 
My  leaping  pulses  to  diviner  heat. 
What  am  I,  that  thy  thought  of  life 
should  blossom 
In  me,  in  me  thy  tide  of  life  should 
beat? 
Beat  strong  within  me,  God-tide,  in 
high  passion. 
With  quickening  spirit  earth-bom 

essence  greet! 
Fountain  of  life!  flow  through  me 
pure  and  sweet. 

O  all-sustaining   Love!    come  close 
beside  me,  — 
Me,  so  unworthy  of  this  wondrous 
gift. 
Purge  me,  refine  me,  try  me  as  by 
fire. 
Whiten  me  white  as  snow  in  gla- 
cier-rift, 
That   neither   spot,  nor   stain    nor 

blemish  darken 
These  elements  that  now  to  being 
drift: 
Inspire,  sustain  me,  all  my  soul 
uplift! 


830 


HUTCHINSON— JA  CKSON, 


O    all-sufficient    Love !     I    am   as 
nothing ; 
Take  me,  thy  way,  most  facile  to 
thy  need ; 
Enraptured,   let  me  feel  thy  spirit 

moulding 
The  germ  that   thou  hast  made  a 

living  seed. 
And  while  the  currents  of  my  life  are 
speeding 
This  life  immortal  in  its  growth  to 

feed, 
To  one  dear  purpose,  all  my  forces 
lead! 


ELLEN  Mackay  Hutchinson. 


SEA-WAY. 

The  tide  slips  up  the  silver  sand. 

Dark  night  and  rosy  day ; 
It  brings  sea-treasures  to  the  land, 

Then  bears  them  all  away. 
On  mighty  shores  from  east  to  west 
It    wails,    and    gropes,    and   cannot 
rest. 

O   tide,    that   still    doth    ebb    and 
flow 
Through  night  to  golden  day :  — 
Wit,  learning,  beauty,  come  and  go, 

Thou  giv'st  —  thou  tak'st  away. 
But    sometime,   on    some    gracious 

shore, 
Thou  shalt  lie  still  and  ebb  no  more. 


Oli  THE  ROAD. 

Dost  know  the  way  to  Paradise  ? 
Pray,  tell  me  by  thy  grace. 

"  Any  way  thou  canst  devise 
That  leads  to  my  love's  face  — 
For  that's  his  dwelling-place." 

How  far  is  it  to  Paradise  ? 
"  Ah,  that  I  cannot  say; 

Time  loiters  and  my  heart  it  flies  - 
A  minute  seems  a  day 
Whene'er  I  go  that  way." 


THE  PRINCE. 

Septembeb  waves  his  golden-rod 
Along  the  lanes  and  hollows. 

And  saunters  round  the  sunny  fields 
A-playing  with  the  swallows. 

The  corn  has  listened  for  his  step. 
The  maples  blush  to  greet  him, 

And  gay  coquetting  Sumach  dons 
Her  velvet  cloak  to  meet  him. 

Come  to  the  hearth,  O  merry  prince. 
With  flaming  knot  and  ember ; 

For  all  your  tricks  of  frosty  eves, 
We  love  your  ways,  September ! 


AUTUMN  SONG. 

Red  leaf,  gold  leaf. 
Flutter  down  the  wind: 
Life  is  brief,  oh !  life  is  brief. 
But  Mother  Earth  is  kind ; 
From  her  dear  bosom  ye  shall  spring 
To  new  blossoming. 

The  red  leaf,  the  gold  leaf, 
They  have  had  their  way; 
Love  is  long  if  life  be  brief,  — 

Life  is  but  a  day ; 
And  love  from  grief  and  death  shall 
spring 
To  new  blossoming. 


Helen  Jackson 

(H.  H.). 
THE   LAST   WORDS. 

[The  last  Avords  written  by  Dr.  Holland, 
Oct.  11th,  1881, —  referring  to  President 
Garfield:  "  By  sympathy  he  drew  all  hearts 
to  him."]  I. 

We    may  not   choose!   Ah,   if   we 

might,  how  we 
Should  linger  here,  not  ready  to  be 

dead. 
Till    one  more    loving    thing  were 

looked,  or  said,  — 
Till  some  dear  child's  estate  of  joy 

should  be 
Complete, — or  we  triumphant,  late. 

should  see 


JACKSON, 


831 


Some  great  cause  win  for  which  our 
hearts  had  bled.  — 

Some  hope  come  true  which  all  our 
lives  had  fed,  — 

Some  bitter  sorrow  fade  away  and  flee, 

Which  we,  rebellious,  had  too  bitter 
thought ; 

Or  even,  —  so  our  human  hearts 
would  cling, 

If  but  they  might,  to  this  fair  world 
inwrought 

With  heavenly  beauty  in  each  small- 
est thing. 

We  would  refuse  to  die  till  we  had 
sought 

One  violet  more,  heard  one  more 
robin  sing! 

II. 

We  may  not  choose:  but  if  we  did 

foreknow 
The  hour  when  we  should  pass  from 

human  sight, 
What  words  were  last  that  we  should 

say,  or  write, 
Could  we  pray  fate  a  sweeter  boon 

to  show 
Than  bid  our  last  words  bum  with 

loving  glow 
Of  heartfelt  praise,  to  lift,  and  make 

more  bright 
A.  great  man's  memory,  set  in  clearer 

light  ? 
Ah  yes !  Fate  could  one  boon  more 

sweet  bestow : 
So    frame  those    words  that  every 

heart  which  knew, 
Should  sudden,  awe-struck,  weeping 

turn  away, 
And  cry:  "His  own  hand    his  best 

wreath  must  lay! 
Of  his  own  life  his  own  last  words 

are  true, 
So  true,  love's  truth  no  truer  thing 

can  say,  — 
"  By  sympathy,  all  hearts  to  him  he 

drew. " 


MARCH. 


Month  which  the  warring  ancients 

strangely  styled 
The  month  of  war,  —  as  if  in  their 

fierce  ways 


Were  any  month  of  peace !  —  in  thy 

rough  days, 
I  find  no  war  in  nature,  though  the 

wild 
Winds  clash  and  clang,  and  broken 

boughs  are  piled 
At  feet  of  writhing  trees.   The  violets 

raise 
Their  heads  without  affright,  or  look 

of  maze. 
And  sleep    through    all   the  din,  as 

sleeps  a  child. 
And  he  who  watches  well,  will  well 

discern 
Sweet    expectation    in   each    living 

thing. 
Like  pregnant    mother,    the  sweet 

earth  doth  yearn ; 
In   secret  joy  makes  ready  for  the 

spring; 
And  hidden,  sacred,  in  her  breast 

doth  bear 
Annimciation  lilies  for  the  year. 


JULY. 


Some  flowers  are  withered  and  some 

joys  have  died ; 
The  garden  reeks  with  an  East  Indian 

scent 
From  beds  where  gillyflowers  stand 

weak  and  spent; 
The  white  heat  pales  the  skies  from 

side  to  side; 
At  noonday  all  the  living  creatures 

hide; 
But  in   still  lakes  and  rivers,  cool, 

content. 
Like  stariy  blooms  on  a  new  firma- 
ment, 
White  lilies  float  and  regally  abide. 
In  vain  the  cruel  skies  their  hot  rays 

shed ; 
The  lily  does  not  feel  their  brazen 

glare ; 
In  vain  the  pallid  clouds  refuse  to 

share 
Their  dews;  the  lily  feels  no  thirst, 

no  dread ; 
Unharmed  she  lifts  her  queenly  face 

and  head ; 
She  drinks  of  living  waters  and  keeT;3 

fair. 


832 


JENNISON. 


MY  J^ASTUBTIUMS. 

Quaint  blossom  with  the  old  fantas- 
tic name, 
By  jester    christened  at  some  an- 
cient feast! 
How  royally  to-day  among  the  least 
Considered  herbs,  it  flings  its  spice 

and  flame. 
How  careless  wears  a  velvet  of  the 

same 
Unfathomed    red,    which    ceased 

when  Titian  ceased 
To  paint  it  in  the  robes  of  doge  and 

priest. 
Oh,  long  lost  loyal  red  which  never 

came 
Again  to  painter's  palette  —  on  my 

sight 
It  flashes  at  this  moment,  trained 

and  poured 
Through    my    nasturtiums    in    the 

morning  light. 
Like  great-souled  kings  to  kingdoms 

full  restored. 
They  stand  alone  and  draw  them  to 

tlieir  heiglit. 
And  shower  me  from  their  stintless 

golden  hoard. 


Lucia  W.  Jennison 

(OWEN  INNSLY). 
IJ^  A  LETTER. 

There  came  a  breath,  out  of  a  dis- 
tant time. 

An  odor  from  neglected  gardens 
where 

Unnumbered  roses  once  perfumed 
the  air 

Through  summer  days,  in  child- 
hood's happy  clime, 

There  came  the  salt  scent  of  the  sea, 
the  chime 

Of  waves  against  the  beaches  or  the 
bare. 

Gaunt  rocks;  as  to  the  mind,  half 
unaware, 

Recur  the  words  of  some  familiar 
rhyme. 


And  as  above  the  gardens  and  the 

sea 
The  moon  arises,  and  her  silver  light 
Touches  the  landscape  with  a  deeper 

grace, 
So  o'er  the  misty  wraiths  of  memory, 
Turning    them   into   pictures    clear 

and  bright. 
Rose  in  a  halo  the  beloved  face. 


^         HER  ROSES. 

Against  her  mouth  she  pressed  the 

rose,  and  there, 
'Neath  the  caress  of  lips  as  soft  and 

red 
As  its  own  petals,  quick  the  bright 

bud  spread 
And  oped,  and  flung  its  fragrance  on 

the  air. 
It  ne'er  again  a  bud's  young  grace 

can  wear  ? 
O   love,  regret   it   not!     It   gladly 

shed 
Its  soul  for  thee,  and  though  thou 

kiss  it  dead 
It    does  not  murmur  at  a  fate  so 

fair. 
Thus,  once,  thou  breath' dst  on  me, 

till  every  germ 
Of  love  and  song  broke  into  raptu- 
rous flower. 
And  sent  a  challenge  upwards  to  the 

sky. 
What    if   too  swift   fruition  set   a 

term 
Too  brief  to  all  things  ?    I  have  lived 

my  hour. 
And  die  contented  since  for  thee  I 

die. 


OUTRE-MORT. 

Suppose  the  dreaded  messenger  of 

death 
Should     hasten    steps    that    seem, 

though  sure,  so  slow. 
And  soon   should  whisper  with  his 

chilly  breath : 
"Arise!  thine  hour  has    sounded, 

thou  must  go ; 


JENNISON, 


833 


For  they  that  earliest  taste  life's  holi- 
est feast 

Must  early  fast,  lest,  grown  too  bold, 
they  dare 

Of  them  that  follow  after  seize  the 
share." 

Then,  though  my  pulse's  beat  forever 

ceased. 
If  where  I  slumbered  thou  shouldst 

chance  to  pass 
Though  grave-bound,  I  thy  presence 

should  discern. 
Heedless    of  coffiu-lid  and  tangled 

grass, 
Upward    to  kiss    thy  feet  my  lips 

would  yearn; 
And  did  one  spark  of  love  thy  heart 

inflame, 
With  the  old  rapture  I  should  call 

thy  name. 


DEPENDENCE. 

What  would  life  keep  for  me  if 

thou  shouldst  go  ? 
Beloved,  give  me   answer;    for  my 

art 
Is  pledged  unto  thy  service,  and  my 

heart 
Apart  from  thee  nor  joy  nor  grace 

doth  know. 
No  arid  desert,  no  wide  waste  of 

snow. 
Looks  drearier  to   exiled  ones  who 

start 
On    their     forced     journey     than, 

shouldst  thou  depart, 
This  fair  green   earth   to  my   dead 

hope  would  show. 
And  like  a  drowning  man  who  strug- 
gling clings 
With  stiffened  fingers  to  the  rope 

that  saves. 
Thrown  out  to  meet  his  deep  need 

from  the  land. 
So  to    thy  thought    I   hold    when 

sorrow's  wings 
Darken  the  sky,  and  'mid  the  bitter- 
est waves 
Of  fate  am  succored  by  thy  friendly 

hand. 


AT  SEA. 

What  lies  beyond  the  far  horizon's 

rim? 
Ah  I    could  our  ship  but  reach  and 

anchor  there, 
What  wondrous  scenes,  what  visions 

bright  and  fair 
Would  meet    the  eyes   that    gazed 

across  the  brim ! 
But  though  we  crowd  the  canvass 

on  and  trim 
Our    barque  with  skill,  the    proud 

waves  seem  to  bear 
No  nearer  to  that  goal,  and  every- 
where 
Stretches  an  endless  circle  wide  and 

dim, 
So  we  do  dream,  treading  the  narrow 

path 
Of  life,  between  the  bounds  of  day 

and  night, 
To-morrow  turns  this  page  so  often 

conned. 
But  when  to-morrow  cometh,  lo!  it 

hath 
The   limits    of   to-day,    and  in   its 

light 
Still  lies  far  off  the  unknown  heaven 

beyond. 

We  sail  the  centre  of  a  ceaseless 
round. 

Forever  circled  by  the  horizon's  rim; 

And  fondly  deem  that  from  that  far- 
off  brim 

Some  sign  will  rise  or  some  glad  ti- 
dings sound. 

But  no  word  comes,  nor  aught  to 
break  the  bound 

Of  sea  and  sky  all  day  with  distance 
dim. 

And  vanished  quite  when  darkness, 
chill  and  grim, 

About  the  deep  her  sable  shroud  has 
wound. 

So  on  the  seas  of  life  and  time  we 
drift, 

Within  the  circling  limits  of  oui 
fate, 

Expectant  ever  of  some  solving 
breath. 

But  no  sound  comes,  no  pitying  hand 
doth  lift 


834 


JOHNSON—  JOYCE. 


The  veil  nor  faith  nor  love  can  pen- 
etrate, 

And  to  our  dusk  succeeds  the  dark 
of  death. 


Robert  U.  Johnson. 

IN  NOVEMBER. 

Here  is  the  water-shed  of  all  the 

year, 
Where     by     a     thought's      space, 

thoughts  do  start  anear 
That  fare  most  widely  forth:  some 

to  the  mouth 
Of  Arctic  rivers,  some  to  the  mellow 

South. 

The  gaunt  and  wrinkled  orchard 
shivers  'neath 

The  blast,  like  Lear  upon  the  English 
heath, 

And  mossy  boughs  blow  wild  that, 
undistressed, 

Another  spring  shall  hide  the  cheer- 
ful nest. 

All  things  are  nearer  from  this  chilly 

crown,  — 
The  solitude,  the  white  and  huddliug 

town ; 
And  next  the  russet  fields,  of  harvest 

shorn, 
Shines  the  new  wheat  that  freshens 

all  the  morn. 

From  out  the    bursting  milkweed, 

dry  and  gray. 
The    silken    argosies    are    launched 

away. 
To  mount  the  gust,  or  drift  from  hill 

to  hill 
And  plant  new  colonies  by  road  and 

rill. 

Ah,  wife  of  mine,  whose  clinging 
hand  I  hold, 

Shrink  you  before  the  new,  or  at 
the  old  ? 

And  those  far  eyes  that  hold  the  si- 
lence fast  — 

I<00k  they  upon  the  Future,  or  the 
Past^ 


Robert  Dwyer  Joyce. 

KILCOLEMAN  CASTLE. 

KiLCOLKMAX  Castle,  an  ancient  and 
very  picturesque  ruin,  once  the  residence 
of  Spenser,  lies  on  the  shore  of  a  small 
lake,  about  two  miles  to  the  west  of  Done- 
raile,  in  the  county  of  Cork.  It  belonged 
once  to  the  Earls  of  Desmond,  and  was 
burned  by  their  followers  in  1598.  Spenser, 
who  was  hated  by  the  Irish  in  consequence 
of  his  stringent  advices  to  the  English 
about  the  management  of  the  refractory 
chiefs  and  minstrels,  narrowly  escaped 
with  his  life,  and  an  infant  child  of  his, 
unfortunately  left  behind,  was  burnt  to 
death  in  the  tiames. 

No  sound  of  life  was  coming 

From  glen  or  tree  or  brake. 
Save  the  bittern's  hollow  booming 

Up  from  the  reedy  lake ; 
The  golden  light  of  sunset 

Was  swallowed  in  the  deep, 
And  the  night  came  down  with  a 
sullen  frown, 

On  Houra's  craggy  steep. 

And  Houra's  hills  are  soundless: 

But  hark,  that  trumpet  blast ! 
It  fills  the  forest  boundless, 

Rings  round  the  summits  vast; 
'Tis  answered  by  another 

From  the  crest  of  Corrin  Mor, 
And  hark  again  the  pipe's  wild  strain 

By  Bregoge's  caverned  shore! 

Oh,  sweet  at  hush  of  even 

The  trumpet's  golden  thrill; 
Grand  'neath  the  starry  heaven 

The  pibroch  wild  and  shrill; 
Yet  all  were  pale  with  terror, 

The  fearful  and  the  bokl, 
Who  heard  its  tone  that  twilight  lone 

In  the  poet's  frowning  hold ! 

Well  might  their  hearts  be  beating; 

For  up  the  mountain  pass, 
By  lake  and  river  meeting 

Came  kern  and  galloglass. 
Breathing  of  vengeance  deadly, 

Under  the  forest  tree. 
To  the  wizard  man  who  had  cast  the 
ban 

On  the  minstrels  bold  and  free  I 


JOYCE. 


!.35 


They  gave  no  word  of  warning, 

Kound  still  they  came,  and  on. 
Door,  wall,  and  ramparts  scorning. 

They  knew  not  he  was  gone! 
Gone  fast  and  far  that  even, 

All  secret  as  the  wind, 
His  treasures  all  in  that  castle  tall. 

And  his  infant  son  behind ! 

All  still  that  castle  hoarest; 

Their  pipes  and  horns  were  still, 
While  gazed  they  through  the  forest, 

Up  glen  and  northern  hill; 
Till  from  the  Brehon  circle, 

On  Corrin's  crest  of  stone, 
A  sheet  of  fire  like  an  Indian  pyre 

Up  to  the  clouds  was  thrown. 

Then,  with  a  mighty  blazing. 

They  answered  —  to  the  sky; 
It  dazzled  their  own  gazing, 

So  bright  it  rolled  and  high; 
The  castle  of  the  poet  — 

The  man  of  endless  fame  — 
Soon  hid  its  head  in  a  mantle  red 

Of  fierce  and  rushing  flame. 

Out  burst  the  vassals,  praying 

For  mercy  as  they  sped, 
"  Where  was  their  master  staying, 

Where  was  the  poet  fled  ?  " 
But  hark!  that  thrilling  screaming. 

Over  the  crackling  din,— 
'Tis  the  poet's  child  in  its  terror  wild, 

The  blazing  tower  within ! 

There  was  a  warlike  giant 

Amid  the  listeningthrong; 
He  looked  with  face  defiant 

On  the  flames  so  wild  and  strong; 
Then  rushed  into  the  castle, 

And  up  the  rocky  stair. 
But  alas,  alas !  he  could  not  pass 

To  the  burning  infant  there ! 

The  wall  was  tottering  under. 

And  the  flame  was  whirring  round. 
The  wall  went  down  in  thunder, 

And  dashed  him  to  the  ground ; 
Up  in  the  burning  chamber 

Forever  died  that  scream, 
A.nd  the  fire  sprang  out  with  a  wilder 
shout 

And  a  fiercer,  ghastlier  gleam! 


It  glared  o'er  hill  and  hollow. 

Up  many  a  rocky  bar, 
From  ancient  Kilnamulla 

To  Darra's  Peak  afar; 
Then  it  heaved  into  the  darkness 

With  a  final  roar  amain, 
And  sank  in  gloom  with  a  whirring 
boom. 

And  all  was  dark  again ! 

Away  sped  the  galloglasses 

And  kerns,  all  still  again, 
Through  Houra's  lonely  passes. 

Wild,  fierce,  and  reckless  men. 
But  such  the  Saxon  made  them. 

Poor  sons  of  war  and  woe ; 
So  they  venged  their  strife  with  flame 
and  knife 

On  his  head  long,  long  ago ! 


THE  BANKS  OF  AXNER. 

In  purple  robes  old  Sliavnamon 

Towers  monarch  of  the  mountains, 
The  first  to  catch  the  smiles  of  dawn. 

With  all  his  woods  and  fountains; 
His  streams  dance  down  by  tower  and 
town. 

But  none  since  time  began  her, 
Met  mortal  sight  so  puie  and  bright 

As  winding,  wandering  Anner. 

In    hillside's    gleam   or   woodland's 
gloom. 

O'er  fairy  height  and  hollow. 
Upon  her  banks  gay  flowerets  bloom. 

Where'er  her  course  I  follow. 
And  halls  of  pride    hang  o'er  her 
tide. 

And  gleaming  bridges  span  her. 
As  laughing  gay,  she  winds  away, 

The  gentle,  murmuring  Anner. 

There  gallant  men,  for  freedom  bom, 

With  friendly  grasp  will  meet  you; 
There   lovely  maids,    as   bright   as 
morn. 

With  sunny  smiles  will  greet  you; 
And  there  they  strove  to  raise  above, 

The  Red,  Green  Ireland's  banner. 
There  yet  its  fold  they'll  see  unrolled 

Upon  the  banks  of  Anner. 


830 


KAY— KINO. 


'Tis  there  we'll  stand,  with  bosoms 
proud, 
True  soldiers  of  our  sireland, 
When  freedom's  wind  blows  strong 
and  loud, 
And  floats  the  flag  of  Ireland. 
Let  tyrants  quake,  and  doubly  shake. 

Each  traitor  and  trepanner. 
When  once  we  raise  our  camp-fire's 
blaze 
Upon  the  banks  of  Anner. 

Oh,  God  be  with  the  good  old  days, 

The  days  so  light  and  airy, 
When  to  blithe  friends  I  sang  my  lays 

In  gallant  Tipperary! 
When  fair  maids'  sighs  and  witching 
eyes 

Made  my  young  heart  the  planner 
Of  castles  rare,  built  in  the  air, 

Upon  the  banks  of  Anner. 

The  morning  sun  may  fail  to  show 

His  light  the  earth  illuming; 
Old  Sliavnamon  to  blush  and  glow 

In  autumn's  purple  blooming; 
And  shamrocks  green    no   more  be 
seen. 

And  breezes  cease  to  fan  her, 
Ere  I  forget  the  friends  I  met 

Upon  the  banks  of  Anner ! 


Charles  de  Kay. 


FINGERS. 

Who  will  tell  me  the  secret,  the  cause 
For  the    life   in    her    swift-flying 
hands  ? 
How  weaves   she   the  shuttle  with 
never  a  pause, 
With     keys     of    the    octave    for 
strands  ? 

Have  they  eyes,  those  soft  fingers  of 
her 
That  they  kiss  in  the  darkness  the 
keys. 
As  in  darkness  the  poets  aver 
Lovers'  lips  will  find  lips  by  de- 
grees ? 


Ay,  marvels  they  are  in  their  shadowy 
dance, 
But  who  is  the  god  that  has  given 
them  soul  ? 
When  leanred  they  the  spell  other 
souls  to  entrance. 
When  the  heart,  other  hearts  to 
control  ? 

'Twas  the  noise  of  the  waves  at  the 
prow. 
The  musical  lapse  on  the  beaches, 
'Twas  the  surf  in  the  night  when  the 
land-breezes  blow, 
The  song  of  the  tide  in  the  reaches : 

She  has  drawn  their  sweet  influence 
home 
To  a  soul  not  yet  clear  but  pro- 
found. 
Where  it  blows  like  the  Persian  sea- 
foam  into  pearls. 
Into  pearls  of  melodious  soimd. 


Henry  King. 

FROM  THE  "EXEQUT  ON  HIS 
WIFE." 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed, 

Never  to  be  disquieted ! 

My  last  good  night!  Thou  wilt  not 

wake 
Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake; 
Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 
Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 
It  so  much  loves,  and  fills  the  room 
My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

Stay  for  me  there !  I  will  not  fail 
To  meet  thee  in  the  hollow  vale. 
And  think  not  much  of  my  delay: 
I  am  already  on  the  way. 
And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 
Desire  can  make,  or  sorrow  heed. 
Each  minute  is  a  short  degree. 
And  every  hour  a  step  towards  thee. 

At  night  when  I  betake  to  rest, 
Next  morn  I  rise  nearer  my  nest 
Of  life,  almost  by  eight  hours'  sail, 
Than  when  sleep  breathed  his  drowsy 
gale, 


LATIIROP  — LONGFELLOW, 


887 


Thus  from  the  sun  my  vessel  steers 
And  my  day's  compass    downward 

bears ; 
Nor  labor  I  to  stem  the  tide 
Through  wliich  to    thee  I    swiftly 

glide. 

'Tis  time,  with  shame  and  gi'ief   I 

yield, 
Thou  like  the  van  first  tak'st    the 

field, 
And  gotten  hast  the  victory, 
In  thus  adventuring  to  die 
Before  me,  whose  more  years  might 

crave 
A  just  precedence  in  the  grave. 
But    hark!    my   pulse,    like    a  soft 

drum 
Beats  my  approach,  tells  thee  I  come ; 
And  slow  howe'er  my  marches  be, 
I  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  thee. 

The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on. 
And  wait  my  dissolution 
With  hope  and  comfort.     Dear,  for- 
give 
The  crime,  —  I  am  content  to  live 
Divided,  with  but  half  a  heart. 
Till  we  shall  meet  and  never  part. 


Rose  Hawthorne  Lathrop. 

[From  Closing  Chords.] 
THE  STRIVING  OF  HOPE. 

When  I  shall  go 

Into  the  narrow  house  that  leaves 

No  room  for  wringing  of  the  hands 

and  hair, 
And  feel  the  pressing  of  the  walls 

which  bear 
The  heavy  sod  upon  my  heart,  that 

grieves 
As  the  weird  earth  rolls  on  — 
Then  I  shall  know 
What  is  the  power  of  destiny.    But 

still. 
Still  while  ray  life,  however  sad,  be 

mine 
I  war  with  memory,  striving  to  divine 


Phantom  to-morrows,  to  outrun  the 

past: 
For  yet  the  tears  of  final,  absolute 

ill 
And  ruinous  knowledge  of  my  fate  I 

shun. 
Even  as  the  frail,  instinctive  weed 
Tries,  through  unending  shade,   to 

reach  at  last 
A  shining,  mellowing,  rapture-giving 

sun; 
So  in  the  deed  of    breathing  joy's 

warm  breath,    • 
Fain  to  succeed, 
I,  too,  in  colorless  longings,  hope  till 

death. 


Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

PRESIDENT  GARFIELD. 
*'  E  venni  dal  martirio  a  questa  pace." 

These  words  the  poet  heard  in  Para- 
dise, 
Uttered  by  one  who,  bravely  dying 

here. 
In  the  true  faith,  was  living  in  that 
sphere 
Where  the  celestial  Cross  of  sacri- 
fice 
Spread  its  protecting  arms  athwart 
the  skies; 
And,  set  thereon,  like  jewels  ciys- 

tal  clear. 
The    souls     magnanimous,    that 
knew  not  fear. 
Flashed  their  effulgence  on  his  daz- 
zled eyes. 

All,  me!  how  dark  the  discipline  of 

pain, 
Were  not  the  suffering  followed  by 

the  sense 
Of  infinite  rest  and  infinite  release  I 

This  is  our  consolation ;  and  again 
A  great  soul  cries  to  us  in  our  sus- 
pense : 

"I  came  from  martyrdom  unto  this 
peace!" 


838 


LUNT-LYTTON. 


George  Lunt. 

THE   COMET. 

Ton  car  of  fire,  though  veiled  by 
day, 

Along  the  field  of  gleaming  blue, 
When  twilight  folded  earth  in  gray, 

A  world-Avide  wonder  flew. 

Duly,  in  turn,  each  orb  of  night 
From    out ,  the  darkling    concave 
broke ! 

Eve's  glowing  herald  swam  in  light 
And  every  star  awoke. 

The     Lyre     re-strang    its    burning 
chords; 
Streamed  from  the  Cross  its  earliest 
ray; 
Then  rose  Altair,  more  sweet  than 
words 
Or  music's  soul  could  say. 

They  from  old  time,  in  course  the 
same, 

Familiar  set,  familiar  rise; 
But  what  art  thou,  wild  lovely  flame. 

Across  the  startled  skies  ? 

Mysterious  yet  as  when  it  burst, 
Through  the  vast  void  of  nature 
hurled, 
And  shook  their  shrinking  hearts  at 
first, 
The  fathers  of  the  world ! 

No  curious  sage  the  scroll  unseals, 
Yain    quest    for    baffled    science 


given 


Its  orbit  ages,  while  it  wheels, 
The  miracle  of  heaven ! 

In  nature's  plan  thy  sphere  unknown. 
Save  that  no  sphere  this  order  mars, 

Whose  law  could  guide  thy  path  alone 
In  realms  beyond  the  stars. 

God's  minister!  we  know  no  more 
Of  thee,  thy  frame,  thy  mission 
still. 
Than  he  who  watched  thy  flight  of 
yore 
On  the  Chaldean  hill. 


Yet    thus,   transcendent    from    thy 
blaze 
Beams  light  to  pierce  this  mortal 
clod; 
Scarcely  "  the  fool ''  on  thee  could 
gaze 
And  say,  "  There  is  no  God  1 " 


Lord  Lytton 

[Edward  Bulwer]. 

IS  IT  ALL  VANITY? 


Life  answers,  "No!  If  ended  here 
be  life. 
Seize  what  the  sense  can  give ;  it 
is  thine  own 
Disarm  thee,  Virtue!  barren  is  thy 
strife ; 
Knowledge,  thy  torch  let  fall ! 

"Seek    thy    lost  Psyche,    yearning 
Love,  no  more! 
Love  is  but  lust,  if  soul  be  only 
breath ; 
Wlio  would  put  forth  one  billow  from 
the  shore 
If  the  great  sea  be  Death?  " 

But  if  the  soul,  that  slow  artificer, 
For  ends  its  instincts  rears  from 
life  hath  striven, 
Feeling  beneath  its  patient  web-work 
stir 
Wings  only  freed  in  heaven,  — 

Then,  and  but  then,  to  toil  is  to  be 
wise; 
Solved  is  the  riddle  of  the  grand 
desire 
Which  ever,   ever  for  the  distant 
sighs, 
And  must  perforce  aspire. 

Rise  then,  my  soul,  take  comfort  from 
thy  sorrow; 
Thou  feel' St  thy    treasure    when 
thou  feel' St  thy  load; 
Life  without  thought,  the  day  with- 
out the  morrow, 
God  on  the  brute  bestowed ;  — 


LYTTON. 


839 


Longings  obscure  as  for  a  native 
clime, 
Flight  from  what  is,    to  live   in 
what  may  be 
Grodgave  the  soul:  —  thy  discontent 
with  time 
Proves  thine  eternity. 


\_From  Richelieu.] 

JUSTICE,      THE      REGENERATIVE 
PO  WER. 

My   liege,  your  anger  can  recall 
your  trust, 

Annul   my  office,   spoil   me  of  my 
lands, 

Rifle  my  coffers;    but  my  name, — 
my  deeds,  — 

Are  royal  in  a  land  beyond  your  scep- 
tre. 

Pass  sentence  on  me,  if  you  will;  — 
from  kings, 

Lo,  I  appeal  to  time!    Be  just,  my 
liege. 

I  found  your  kingdom  rent  with  her- 
esies, 

And  bristling  with  rebellion; — law- 
less nobles 

And   breadless   serfs;    England    fo- 
menting discord, 

Austria,  her  clutch  on  your  domin- 
ion; Spain 

Forging  the  prodigal  gold  of  either 
Ind 

To  armed  thunderbolts.      The  arts 
lay  dead; 

Trade  rotted  in   your  marts;  your 
armies  mutinous. 

Your  treasury  bankrupt.    Would  you 
now  revoke 

Your  trust,  so  be  it!    and  I  leave 
you,  sole, 

Supremest  monarch  of  the  mightiest 
realm. 

From  Ganges  to  the  icebergs.     Look 
without,  — 

No  foe  not  humbled !  Look  within, — 
tlie  arts 

Quit  for  our  schools,  their  old  Hes- 
perides, 

The  golden  Italy!  while  throughout 
the  veins 


Of  your  vast  empire  flows  in  strength- 
ening tides 

Trade,  the  calm  health  of  nations! 
Sire,  I  know 

That  men  have  called  me  cruel ;  — 

I  am  not;  —  I  am  just!  I  found 
France  rent  asunder, 

The  rich  men  despots,  and  the  poor 
banditti; 

Sloth  in  the  mart,  and  schism  within 
the  temple. 

Brawls  festering  to  rebellion;  and 
weak  laws 

Rotting  away  with  rust  in  antique 
sheaths. 

I  have  re-created  France;  and,  from 
the  ashes 

Of  the  old  feudal  and  decrepit  car- 
cass, 

Civilization,  on  heV  luminous  wings 

Soars  phoenix-like,  to  Jove!  What 
was  my  art  ? 

Genius,  some  say;  —  some,  fortune; 
witchcraft,  some. 

Not  so; —  my  art  was  Justice! 


S_From  King  Arthur.] 

CARADOC,      THE     BARD,     TO     THE 

CYMRIANS. 

No  Cymrian  bard,  by  the  primitive  law, 
could  bear  weapons. 

Hark  to  the  measured  march !  —  The 

Saxons  come ! 
The  sound  earth  quails  beneath  the 

hollow  tread! 
Your  fathers  rushed  upon  the  swords 

of  Rome, 
And  climbed  her  war-ships,  when 

the  Caesar  fled, 
The  Saxons  come !    why  wait  within 

the  wall  ? 
They  scale  the   mountain:  —  let  its 

torrents  fall! 

Mark,  ye  have  swords,  and  shields, 
and  armor,  ye! 
No    mail    defends    the    Cymrian 
child  of  Song ; 
But  where    the  warrior,   there  the 
bard  shall  be ! 
All  fields  of  glory  to  the  bards  be- 
long! 


840 


LYTTON. 


His  realm  extends  wherever  godlike 
strife 

Spurns  the  base  death,  and  wins  im- 
mortal life. 

Unarmed   he  goes  —  his  guard   the 

shield  of  all, 
Where  he  bounds  foremost  on  the 

Saxon  spear ! 
Unarmed  he  goes,  that,  falling,  even 

his  fall 
Shall  bring  no  shame,  and  shall 

bequeath  no  fear! 
Does  the  song  cease  ?  —  avenge  it  by 

the  deed, 
And  make  the  sepulchre  —  a  nation 

freed  I 


Lord  Lytton 

[Edward  Robert  Bulwer] 
(owen  meredith). 

the  chess-board. 

My  little  love,  do  you  remember. 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  Decem- 
ber, 
Curtained    warm    from    the    snowy 

weather, 
When  you  and  I  played    chess  to- 
gether, 
Checkmated  by  each  other's  eyes  ? 
Ah!  still  I  see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm   o'er    queen    and 
knight ; 
Brave  pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand ; 
The  double  castles  guard  the  wings ; 
The  bishop,  bent  on  distant  things. 

Moves  sidling  through  the  fight. 

Our  fingers  touch,  our  glances  meet, 

And  faltei ,  falls  your  golden  hair 

Against  my  cheek :  your  bosom  sweet 

Is    heaving;  down    the    field,   your 

queen 
Rides  slow  her  soldiery  all  between, 

And  checks  me  unaware. 
Ah  me!  the  little  battle's  done, 
Dispersed  is  all  its  chivalry; 


Full  many  a  move,  since  then,  have 

we 
'Mid  life's  pei"plexing  chequers  made. 
And    many    a   game    with    fortune 
played  — 
What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 
This,  this  at  least  —  if  this  alone  — 
That  never,  never,  never  more, 
As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore  — 
Ere  vve  were  grown  so  sadly  wise  — 
Can  you  and  I  shut  out  the  skies, 
Shut    out    the    world    and    wintry 
weather, 
And  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with 
eyes. 
Play  chess  as  then  we  played  together ! 


CHANGES. 

Whom  first  we  love,  you  know,  we 
seldom  wed. 
Time  rules  us  all.     And  life  indeed, 
is  not 
The  thing  we  planned  it  out  ere  hope 
is  dead. 
And  then,  we  women  cannot  choose 
our  lot. 

Much  must  be  borne  which  it  is  hard 
to  bear: 
Much  given  away  which  it  were 
sweet  to  keep. 
God  help  us  all!  who  need,  indeed, 
His  care. 
And  yet  I  know,  the    Shepherd 
loves  His  sheej). 

My  little  boy  begins  to  babble  now 
Upon  my  knee  his  earliest  infant 
prayer; 
He  has  his  father's  eager  eyes.I  know ; 
And,   they  say  too,  his  mother's 
sunny  hair. 

But  when  he  sleeps  and  smiles  upon 
my  knee, 
And  I  can  feel  his    light  breath 
come  and  go, 
I  think  of  one  —  Heaven  help  and 
pity  me ! 
Who  loved  me,  and  whom  I  loved, 
long  ago. 


LTTTON. 


841 


Who  might  have  been  —  ah,  what  I 
dare  not  think  ? 
We  all  are  changed.     God  judges 
for  us  best. 
God  help  us  do  our  duty,  and  not 
shrink, 
And  trust  in  Heaven  humbly  for 
the  rest. 

But  blame  us  women  not,  if  some 
appear 
Too  cold  at  times ;  and  some  too  gay 
and  light. 
Some  griefs  gnaw  deep.     Some  woes 
are  hard  to  bear; 
Who  knows  the  past  ?  and  who  can 
judge  us  right  ? 

Ah,  were  we  judged  by  what  we  might 
have  been, 
And  not  by  what  we  are,  too  apt  to 
fall! 
My  little  child  —  he  sleeps  and  smiles 
between 
These  thoughts  and  me.   In  heaven 
we  shall  know  all  I 


[From  I/iicile.] 
LIFE  A    VICTORY. 

A  POWER  hid  in  pathos;  a  fire  veiled 

in  cloud: 
Yet  still  burning  outward :  a  branch 

which,  though  bowed 
By  the  bird  in  its  passage,  springs 

upward  again: 
Through  all  symbols  I  search  for  her 

sweetness  —  in  vain ! 
Judge  her  love  by  her  life.    For  our 

life  is  but  love 
In   act.     Pure    was    hers:  and  the 

dear  God  above. 
Who  knows  what  his  creatures  have 

need  of  for  life. 
And  whose  love  includes  all  loves, 

through  much  patient  strife 
Led    her   soul    into   peace.     Love, 

though  love  may  be  given 
In  vain,  is  yet  lovely.     Her  own  na- 
tive heaven 
More  clearly  she  mirrored,  as  life's 

troubled  dream 


Wore  away;    and  love  sighed  into 

rest,  like  a  stream 
That  breaks  its  heart  over  wild  rocks 

toward  the  shore 
Of  the  great  sea  which  hushes  it  up 

evermore 
With    its    little    wild    wailing.    No 

stream  from  its  source 
Flows  seaward,  how  lonely  soever  its 

course, 
But  what  some  land  is  gladdened. 

No  star  ever  rose 
And  set,    without    influence  some- 
where.    Who  knows 
What  earth  needs  from  earth's  lowest 

creature?    No  life 
Can    be  pure  in    its   purpose    and 

strong  in  its  strife 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger 

thereby. 
The  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect 

on  high. 
The  army  of  martyrs  who  stand  by 

the  throne 
And  gaze  into  the  face  that  makes 

glorious  their  own, 
Know  this,  surely,  at  last.     Honest 

love,  honest  sorrow. 
Honest    work   for  the  day,   honest 

hope  for  the  morrow. 
Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than 

the  hand  they  make  weary. 
The  heart  they  have  sadden'd,  the 

life  they  leave  dreary  ? 
Hush !  the  sevenfold  heavens  to  the 

voice  of  the  Spirit 
Echo:    He  that  o'ercometh  shall  all 

things  inherit. 


[From  Lucile.'] 
THE   UNFULFILLED. 

How  blest  should  we  be,  have  I  often 

conceived, 
Had    we  really  achieved  what  we 

nearly  achieved! 
We  but  catch  at  the  skirts  of  the 

thing  w^e  would  be, 
And  fall  back  on  the  lap  of  a  false 

destiny. 
So  it  will  be,  so  has  been,  since  thii 

world  began ! 


842 


McKA  Y  —  MABLOWF. 


And  the  happiest,  noblest,  and  best 

part  of  man 
Is  the  part  which  he  never  hath  fully 

played  out : 
For  the  first  and  last  word  in  life's 

volume  is  —  Doubt. 
The  face  the  most  fair  to  our  vision 

allowed 
Is  the  face  we  encounter  and  lose  in 

the  crowd ; 
The  thought    that  most  thrills  our 

existence  is  one 
Which,   before   we  can  frame  it  in 

language,  is  gone. 


James  I.  McKay. 


A  SUMMER  MORNING, 

Oh,  the  earth  and  the  air! 

Honeysuckle  and  rose; 

Fir-trees  tapering  high 

Into  the  deep  repose 

Of  the  fleckless  sky: 

Hills  that  climb  and  are  strong; 

Basking,  contented  plain ; 

Sunlight  poured  out  along 

The  sea  of  the  grass  like  rain ; 

Spice-burdenedwinds  that  rise, 

Whisper,  wander  and  hush ; 

And  the  carolling  harmonies 

Of  robin  and  quail  and  thrush! 
O  God,  Thy  world  is  fair! 

And  this  but  the  place  of  His  feet! 
I  had  cried,  "Let  me  see!  let  me 

hear ! 
Show  me  the  ways  of  Thy  hand ! " 
For  it  all  was  a  riddle  drear 
That  I  fainted  to  understand. 
Canopy,  close-drawn  round. 
Part  not,  nor  lift  from  the  ground: 
Move  not  your  finger-tips, 
Firs,  from  the  heavens'  lips. 
When  this  is  the  place  of  His  feet, 
How  should  I  fear  to  raise 
My  blasted  vision  to  meet 
The  inconceivable  blaze 

Of  His  majesty  complete  ? 


Cameron  Mann. 

THE  LONGING   OF  CIRCE. 

The  vapid  years  drag  by,  and  bring 
not  here 
The  man  for  whom  I  wait ; 
All  things  pall  on  me;  in  my  heart 
grows  fear 
Lest  1  may  miss  my  fate. 

I  weary  of  the  heavy  wealth  and  ease 

Which  all  my  isle  enfold, 
The    fountain's    sleepy    plash,    the 
changeless  breeze. 

That  bears  nor  heat  nor  cold, 

With  dull  unvaried  mien,  my  maids 
and  I 
Glide  through  our  household  tasks; 
Gather  strange  herbs,  weave  purple 
tapestry, 
Distil,  in  magic  flasks. 

Most  weary  am  I  of  these  men  who 
yield 

So  swiftly  to  my  spell,  — 
The  beastly  rout  now  wandering  afield 

With  grunt  and  snarl  and  yell. 

Ah!  when  in  place  of  tigers  and  of 
swine. 
Shall  he  confront  me,  whom 
My  song  cannot  enslave,   nor  that 
bright  wine 
Where  rank  enchantments  fume  ? 

Then  with  what  utter  gladness  will  I 
cast 
My  sorceries  away ; 
And  kneel  to  him,  my  lord  revealed 
at  last 
And  serve  him  night  and  day ! 


Christopher  Marlowe. 

A  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS 
LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  grove  or  valley,  hill  or  field. 
Or  wood  and  steepy  mountain  yield. 


MARS  TON. 


843 


Where  we  will  sit  on  rising  rocks, 

"  Upon  your  hearts,  my  hands  and 

And    see  the  shepherds  feed  their 

lips  were  set  — 

flocks 

My  lips  of  tire  —  and  yet 

By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 

Ye  knew  me  not. 

Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

Nay,  surely,  Love!   We  knew  thee 

Pleased  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses. 

well,  sweet  Love! 

And    twine     a     thousand     fragrant 

Did  we  not  breathe  and  move 

posies ; 

Within  thy  light  ? 

A  cap  of  flowers  and  rural  kirtle, 

Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myr- 

" Ye  did  reject  my  thorns  who  wore 

tle. 

my  roses; 

Now  darkness  closes 

A  jaunty  gown  of  finest  wool. 

Upon  your  sight." 

Which   from  our   pretty  lambs  we 

pull; 
And  shoes  lined  choicely  for  the  cold. 

0  Love!  stern  Love!  be  not  impla- 

cable; 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold: 

We  loved  thee,  Love,  so  well! 

Come  back  to  us ! 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 

With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs; 

"  To  whom,  and  where,  and  by  what 

If   these,  these    pleasures  can  thee 

weary  way 

move, 

That  I  went  yesterday, 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Shall  I  come  thus  ? 

Oh,  weep,  weep,  weep!  for  Love  who 
tarried  long 

Philip  Bourke  Marston. 

With  many  a  kiss  and  song 
Has  taken  wing, 

FROM  FAR. 

No  more  he  lightens  in  our  eyes  like 

O  LOVE,  come  back,  across  the  weary 

fire! 

way 

He  heeds  not  our  desire, 

Thou  didst  go  yesterday — 

Or  songs  we  sing. 

Dear  Love,  come  back! 

*'  I  am  too  far  upon  my  way  to  turn; 

Be  silent,  hearts  that  yearn 

TOO  NEAR. 

Upon  my  track." 

So  close  we  are,  and  yet  so  far  apart, 

0  Love!  Love!  Love!  sweet  Love! 

So  close,  I  feel  your  breath  upon  my 

we  are  undone, 

cheek ; 

If  thou  indeed  be  gone 

So  far  that  all  this  love  of  mine  is 

Where  lost  things  are. 

weak 

To  touch  in   any  way  your  distant 

"  Beyond  the  extremest  sea's  waste 

heart ; 

light  and  noise. 

So  close  that  when  I  hear  your  voice 

As  from  Ghostland,  thy  voice 

I  start, 

Is  borne  afar." 

To  see  my  wliole  life  standing  bare 

and  bleak ; 

0  Love,  what  was  our  sin  that  we 

So  far  that  though  for  years    and 

should  be 

years  I  seek, 

Forsaken  thus  by  thee  ? 

I   shall    not    find  thee    other  than 

So  hard  a  lot! 

thou  art; 

844 


MASON—  MITCHELL. 


So  while  I  live  and  walk  upon  the 

verge 
Of  an  impassable  and  changeless  sea, 
Which  more  than  deatli  divides  me, 

love,  from  thee: 
Th3  mournful  beating  of  its  leaden 

surge 
Is  all  the  music  now  that  I  shall 

hear ; — 
O  love,  thou  art  too  far  and  yet  too 

near ! 


Caroline  Atherton  Mason. 

MAY. 

I  SAW  a  child,  once,  that  had  lost  its 

way 
In  a  great  city :  ah,  dear  Heaven,  such 

eyes ! 
A  far-off  look  in  them,  as  if  the  skies 
Her  birtliplace  were.     So  looks  to  me 

the  May. 
April  is  ominous;  June  is  glad  and 

gay; 

May  glides  between  them  in  such 
wondering  wise. 

Lovely  as  dropped  from  some  far  Par- 
adise, 

And  knowing,  all  the  while,  herself 
astray. 

Or,  is  the  fault  with  us  ?  Nay,  call 
it  not 

A  fault,  but  a  sweet  trouble.  Is  it 
we, — 

Catching  some  glimpse  of  our  own 
destiny 

In  May's  renewing  touch,  some  yearn- 
ing thought 

Of  Heaven,  beneath  her  resurrecting 
hand, — 

We  who  are  aliens,  lost  in  a  strange 
land? 


Alf  OPEN  SECRET. 

Would  the  lark  sing  the  sweeter  if 

he  knew 
A  thousand  hearts  hung  breathless 

on  his  lay? 
And  if  "  How  fair!  "  the  rose  could 

hear  us  say, 


Would  she,   her  primal  fairness  to 

outdo. 
Take  on  a  richer  scent,  a  lovelier 

hue? 
Who  knows  or  cares  to  answer  yea  or 

nay? 
O  tuneful  lark !  sail  singing  on  your 

way. 
Brimmed  with  excess  of  ecstasy ;  and 

you, 

Sweet  rose !  renew  with  every  perfect 
June, 

Your  perfect  blossoming!  Still  na- 
ture-wise 

Sing,  bloom,  because  ye  must  and  not 
for  praise. 

If 'only  we  who  covet  the  fairboon^ 

Of  well-earned  fame,  and  wonder 
where  it  lies 

Would  read  the  secret  in  your  simple 
ways! 


Weir  Mitchell 


THE  QUAKER  GRAVEYARD. 

FouK  straight  brick  walls,  severely 
plain, 

A  quiet  city  square  surround ; 
A  level  space  of  nameless  graves, 

The  Quaker's  burial-ground. 

In  gown  of  gray  or  coat  of  drab, 
They  trod  the  common  ways  of 
life. 

With  passions  held  in  sternest  leash, 
And  hearts  that  knew  not  strife. 

To   yon   grim   meeting-house   they 
fared. 
With  thoughts  as  sober  as  their 
speech 
To    voiceless    prayer,    to    songless 
praise. 
To  hear  the  elders  preach. 

Through  quiet  lengths  of  days  they 
came, 
With  scarce  a  change  to  this  re* 
pose; 
Of  all  life's  loveliness  they  took 
The  thorn  without  the  rose. 


MOULTON, 


845 


But  in  the  porch  and  o'er  the  graves 
Glad  rings  the   southward  robin's 
glee; 

And  sparrows  fill  the  autumn  air 
With  merry  mutiny. 

While  on  the  graves  of    drab   and 
gray 

The  red  and  gold  of  autumn  lie; 
And  wilful  Nature  decks  the  sod 

In  gentlest  mockery. 


LOUISE  Chandler  Moulton. 

MY  SAINT. 

Oh,  long  the  weary  vigils  since  you 
left  me  — 
In  your  far  home,  I  wonder,  can 
you  know 
To  what  dread  uttermost  your  loss 
bereft  me, 
Or  half  it  meant  to  me  that  you 
should  go  ? 

This  world  is  full,   indeed,  of  fair 
hopes  perished, 
And  loves  more  fleet  than  this  poor 
fleeting  breath ; 
But  that  deep  heart  in  which  my 
heart  was  cherished 
Must  surely  have  survived  what  we 
call  death. 

They  cannot  cease  —  our  own  true 
dead  —  to  love  us, 
And  you  will  hear  this  far-off  ciy 
of  mine, 
Though  you    keep  holiday  so  high 
above  us. 
Where  all  the  happy  spirits  sing 
and  shine. 

Steal  back  to  me  to-night,  from  your 
far  dwelling. 
Beyond  the  pilgrim  moon,  beyond 
the  sun ; 
They  will  not  miss  your  single  voice 
for  swelling 
Their    rapture  -  chorus  —  you    are 
only  one. 


Ravish  my  soul,  as  with  divine  em- 
braces ; 

.  Teach  me,   if  life    is   false,  that 
Death  is  true ; 

With   pledge    of    new    delights    in 
heavenly  places 
Entice  my  spirit  ;    take  me  hence 
with  you. 


AT  SEA. 

Outside  the  mad  sea  ravens  for  its 

prey  — 
Shut  from  it  by  a  floating  plank  I 

lie; 
Through  this  round  window  search 

the  faithless  sky. 
The  hungry  waves  that  fain  would 

rend  and  slay, 
The  live-long,  blank,    interminable 

way. 
Blind  with  the  sun  and  hoarse  with 

the  wind's  cry 
Of  wild,  unconquerable  mutiny, 
Until  night  comes  more  terrible  than 

day. 
No  more  at  rest  am  I  than  wind  and 

wave ; 
My  soul  cries  with  them  in  their  wild 

despair, 
I,  who  am  Destiny's  impatient  slave, 
Who  iind  no  help  in  hope,  nor  ease 

in  prayer. 
And  only  dream  of  rest,  on  some  dim 

shore 
Where  sea  and  storms  and  life  shall 

be  no  more. 


LEFT  BEHIND. 

Wilt  thou  forget  me  in  that  other 
sphere  — 
Thou  who  hast  shared  my  life  so 

long  in  this  — 
And  straight  grown  dizzy  with  that 
greater  bliss, 
Fronting  heaven's  splendor    strong 

and  full  and  clear, 
No   longer  hold    the  old  embraces 
dear 
When  some  sweet  seraph  crowns 

thee  with  her  kiss? 
Nay,  surely  from  that  rapture  thou 
wouldst  miss 


846 


MOULTON. 


Some  slight,  small  thing  that  thou 
liast  cared  for  here. 

I  do  not  dream  that  from  those  ulti- 
mate heights 
Thou  wilt  come  back  to  seek  me 
where  I  bide ; 

But  if  I  follow,  patient  of  thy  slights, 
And  if  I  stand  there,  waiting  by 
thy  side, 

Surely  thy  heart  with  some  old  thrill 
will  stir, 

And  turn  thy  face  toward  me,  even 
from  her. 


HIC  JACET. 

So  Love  is  dead  that  has  been  quick 
so  long! 
Close,  then,  his  eyes,  and  bear  him 

to  his  rest, 
With  eglantine  and  myrtle  on  his 
breast ; 
And  leave  him  there,  their  pleasant 

scents  among. 
And  chant  a  sweet  and  melancholy 
song 
About  the   charms   of  which   he 

was  possest ; 
And  how  of  all  things  he  was  love- 
liest, 
And  to  compare  with  aught  were  him 

to  wrong. 
Leave    him,   beneath  the    still  and 
solemn  stars, 
That  gather  and  look  down  from 
their  far  place, 
With  their  long  calm  our  brief 
woes  to  deride, 
Until  the  sun  the  morning's  gate  un- 
bars, 
And  mocks,  in  turn,  our  sorrows 
with  his  face  — 
And  yet,  had  Love  been  Love, 
he  had  not  died. 


FROM  A    WINDOW  IN  CHAMOUNL 

Long  waited  for,  the  lingering  sun 
arose : 
Hid  was  the  low  east,  flushed  with 

crimson  shame, 
By  stately  hills  to  which  his  glory 
came 


One  after  one,  kindling  the  virgin 

snows. 
That  on  their  brows  eternally  repose. 
To  glowing  welcome  of  his  godlike 

claim 
To  be  their  lord  and  lover,  and  his 
flame 
Of  everlasting  passion  to  disclose. 
Even  so  for  you,   impatient  hearts, 
that  wait. 
Cold    'neath    the    snows  of    your 
virginity. 
The  hour  shall  come  that  warms  you, 
soon  or  late : 
Though  long  your  night,  the  long- 
est night  goes  by. 
Strong  love  shall  shine  in  triumph 
from  your  sky. 
And  with  his  kiss  of  fire  fulfil  your 
fate. 


Caroline  Frances  Orne. 

THE  GOLD  UNDER  THE  ROSES. 

"  Oh  where  hae  ye  been,   my  ain 
Johnnie? 
Where  hae  ye  been  wi'  your  little 
spade?" 
"  I  hae  been  to  dig  up  a  pot  o'  money 
Amang  the  roses  white  and  red." 

"  O  dear,  my  Johnnie,  my  ain  John- 
nie, 

Hae  ye  digged  my  roses  red  and  sweet  ? 

What  did  ye  find,  my  little  laddie  ? 
What  gaed  wrang?  and  what  gars 
ye  greet?" 

"  I    fand  nae   aucht  but  ane    auld 
penny  — 
A  thistle  upon  its  grimy  head; 
And  the  sweet  white  roses,  the  sweet 
red  roses, 
Are  a'  uprooted  and  withered  and 
dead." 

"Ah,  my  wee  mannie,  my  ain  John. 

nie! 

Tak  tent  the  lesson  be  wisely  sped ; 

For  gold  or  gear  waste    not    life's 

sweetness. 

Better  love's  roses  white  and  red." 


PALFREY—  PRENTICE, 


847 


Sarah  Hammond  Palfrey 

(e.  foxton). 

THE  CHILD'S   PLEA. 

Because  I  wear  the  swaddling-bands 
of  time, 
Still  mark  and  watch  me, 
Eternal  Father,  on  Thy  throne  sub- 
lime, 
Lest  Satan  snatch  me. 

Because  to  seek  Thee  I  have  yet  to 
learn, 
Come  dow  n  and  lead  me ; 
Because  I  am  too  weak  my  bread  to 
earn, 
My  Father,  feed  me. 

Because  I  grasp  at  things  that  are 
not  mine. 
And  might  undo  me, 
Give,    from    thy    treasure-house    of 
goods  divine. 
Good  gifts  unto  me. 

Because  too  near  the  pit  I  creeping 
go, 
Do  not  forsake  me. 
To  climb  into  Thine  arms  I  am  too 
low; 
O  Father,  take  me ! 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

O'er  waves  that  murmur  ever  nigh 
My  window  opening  toward   the 
deep. 
The  light-house,  with  its  wakeful  eye 
Looks  into   mine,    that  shuts  to 
sleep. 

I  lose  myself  in  idle  dreams, 
And  wake  in  smiles  or  sighs  or 
fright 

According  to  my  vision's  themes. 
And  see  it  shining  in  the  night, 

Forever  there  and  still  the  same ; 
While   many  more,    besides    me, 
mark,  — 
On    various    course,    with    various 
aim, — 
That  light  that  shineth  in  the  dark. 


It  draws  my  heart  towards  those 
who  roam 

Unknown,  nor  to  be  known  by  me; 
I  see  it  and  am  glad,  at  home. 

They  see  it,  and  are  safe  at  sea. 

On    slumbrous,   thus,    or    watching 
eyes, 
It  shines  through  all  the  dangerous 
night; 
Until  at  length  the  day  doth  rise. 
And  light  is  swallowed  up  of  light. 

Light  of  the  world,  incarnate  Word, 
So  shin' St  thou  through  our  night 
of  time, 
Whom  freemen  love  to  call  their  Lord, 
O  Beacon,  steadfast  and  sublime ! 
•         .  .  .  . 

And  men  of  every  land  and  speech, 
If  but    they  have  Thee    in   their 
sight, 
Are  bound  to  Thee,  and  each  to  each. 
Through  thee,  by  countless  threads 
of  light. 


George  Dennison  Prentice. 

THE  RIVER  IN  THE  MAMMOTH 
CAVE. 

O  DARK,  mysterious  stream,  I  sit  by 

thee 
In  awe  profound,  as  myriad  wander- 
ers 
Have  sat  before.      I  see  thy  watei*s 

move 
From  out  the  ghostly  glimmerings  of 

my  lamp 
Into  the  dark  beyond,  as  noiselessly 
As  if  thou  wert  a  sombre  river  drawn 
Upon  a  spectral  canvas,  or  the  stream 
Of  dim  Oblivion  flowing  through  the 

lone 
And  shadowy  vale  of  death.    There 

is  no  wave 
To  whisper  on  thy  shore,  or  breathe 

a  wail. 
Wounding  its  tender  bosom  on  thy 

shai-p 


848 


REDDEN. 


And  jagged  rocks.    Innumerous  min- 
gled tones. 

The  voices  of  the  day  and  of  the 
night, 

Are  ever  heard  through  all  our  outer 
world, 

For  Nature  there  is  never  dumb ;  but 
here 

I  turn  and  turn  my  listening  ear,  and 
catch 

No  mortal  sound,  save  that  of  my 
own  heart, 

That  'mid  the  awful  stillness  throbs 
aloud, 

Like  the  far  sea-surf's  low  and  meas- 
ured beat 

Upon  its  rocky  shore.     But  when  a 
cry. 

Or  shout,   or  song    is    raised,    hmv 
wildly  back 

Come  the  weird  echoes  from  a  thou- 
sand rocks, 

As  if  unnumbered  airy  sentinels. 

The  genii  of  the  spot,  caught  up  the 
voice, 

Repeating  it  in  wonder  —  a  wild  maze 

Of     spirit-tones,    a    wilderness    of 
sounds, 

Earth-born  but  all  unearthly. 

Thou  dost  seem, 

O  wizard  stream,  a  river  of  the  dead — 

A  river  of    some  blasted,   perished 
world. 

Wandering   forever    in    the   mystic 
void. 

No    breeze    e'er    strays    across   thy 
solemn  tide; 

No  bird  e'er  breaks  thy  surface  with 
his  wing; 

No    star,   or    sky,   or  bow,   is  ever 
glassed 

Within  thy  depths ;  no  flower  or  blade 
e'er  breathes 

Its  fragrance  from  thy  bleak  banks 
on  the  air. 

True,  here  are  flowers,  or  semblances 
of  flowers. 

Carved  by  the  magic  fingers  of  the 
drops 

That   fall    upon    thy    rocky    battle- 
ments — 

Fair  roses,  tulips,  pinks,  and  violets — 

All  white  as  cerements  of  the  coffined 
dead; 


But  they  are  flowers  of  stone,  and 

never  drank 
The  sunshine  or  the  dew.     O  sombre 

stream. 
Whence  coinest  thou,   and  whither 

goest?    Far 
Above,  upon  the  surface  of  old  Earth, 
A  hundred  rivers  o'er  thee  pass  and 

sweep, 
In  music,   and  in  sunshine,  to  the 

sea;  — 
Thou  art  not  born  of  them.    Whence 

comest  thou, 
And  whither  goest  ?    None  of  earth 

can  know. 
No  mortal  e'er  has  gazed  upon  thy 

source  — 
No    mortal    seen    where    thy    dark 

waters  blend 
With  the  abyss  of  Ocean.    None  may 

guess 
The  mysteries  of  thy  course.      Per- 
chance thou  hast 
A  hundred  mighty  cataracts,  thun- 
dering down 
Toward  Earth's  eternal  centre;  but 

their  sound 
Is  not  for  ear  of  man.     All  we  can 

know 
Is  that  thy  tide  rolls  out,  a  spectre 

stream. 
From  yon  stupendous,  frowning  wall 

of  rock. 
And,  moving  on  a  little  way,  sinks 

down 
Beneath  another  mass  of    rock  as 

dark 
And    frowning,    even    as  life  —  our 

little  fife  — 
Born  of  one  fathomless  eternity, 
Steals  on  a  moment  and  then  disap- 
pears 
In  an  eternity  as  fathomless. 


Laura  C.  Redden 

(HOWARD  GLYNDON). 

FAIR  AND  FIFTEEN. 

She  is  the  east  just  ready  for  the  sun 
Upon  a  cloudless  morning.      Oh, 
her  cheek 


BICH, 


849 


Hath  caught  the  trick  of  that  first, 
delicate  streak 
WTiich  says  earth's  light-ward  foot- 
steps have  begun  I 

And  still  her  brow  is  like  some  Arctic 
height 
Which  never  knows  the  full,  hot 

flush  of  noon ; 
She  wears  the  seal  of  May  and  not 
of  June ; 
She  is  the  new  day,  furthest  off  from 
night ! 

Luring  in  promise  of  all  daintiest 
sweetness : 
A  bud  with  crimson  rifting  through 

its  green ; 
The  large,  clear  eyes,  so  shy  their 
lids  between 
Give  hints  of  this  dear  wonder's  near 
completeness. 

For,  when  the  bud  is  fair  and  full, 
like  this, 
We  know  that  there  will  be  a  que^n 

of  roses. 
Before  her  cloister's  emerald  gate 
imcloses, 
And  her  true  knight  unlocks  her  with 
a  kiss ! 

And  gazing  on    the    young   moon, 
fasliioned  slightly, 
A  silver  cipher  inlaid  on  the  blue, 
For  all  that  she  is  strange  and  slim 
and  new, 
We  know  that  she  will  grow  Ln  glory 
nightly. 

And  dear  to  loving  eyes  as  that  first 
look 
The  watcher   getteth  of   the   far 

white  sail. 
This  new  light  on  her  face;  she 
doth  prevail 
Upon  us  like  a  rare,  imopened  book! 


Helen  Rich. 

SILENT  MOTHERS. 

I  woxDER,  child,  if,  when  you  cry 
To  me,  in  such  sore  agony 


As  I  moaned  "Mother!"  yesterday, 
I  shall  not  find  some  gracious  way. 
Of  comforting  my  little  May ! 

If,  when  you  kiss  my  silent  lips, 
They    will    not   pass    from  death's 

•     eclipse 
To  smile  in  peace  I  then  shall  know, 
That  waits  where  tired  mothers  go  — 
Ay,  kiss  and  bless  you  soft  and  low  ? 

If  my  poor  children's  grief  will  fail 
To  stir  the  white  and  frosty  veil 
That  hides  my  secret  from  their  eyes, 
Shall  I  not  turn  from  Paradise 
To  still  the  tempest  of  their  sighs  ? 

Oh !  patient  hands,  that  toil  to  keep 
The  wolf  at  bay  while  children  sleep, 
That    smooth    each    flossy    tangled 

tress, 
And  thrill  with  mother  happiness ; 
Have  they  not  soon  the    power  to 
bless  ? 

I  think  the  sting  of  death  must  be 
Resigning  Love's  sweet  mastery; 
To  bid  our  little  ones  "  Good  night," 
And  even  with  all  Heaven  in  sight, 
To  turn  from  home  and  its  delight. 


Hiram  Rich. 

STILL   TENANTED. 

Old  house,  how  desolate  thy  life ! 

Nay,  life  and  death  alike  have  fled; 
Nor  thrift,  nor  any  song  within, 

Nor  daily  thought  for  daily  bread. 

The  dew  is  nightly  on  thy  hearth. 
Yet    something    sweeter    to  thee 
clings, 

And  some  who  enter  think  they  hear 
The  murmtir  of  departing  wings. 

No     doubt    within     the    chambers 
there. 
Not  by  the  wall  nor  through  the 
gate, 
Uncounted  tenants  come,  to  whom 
The  house  is  not  so  desolate. 


850 


RIORDAN. 


To  them  the  walls  are  white    and 
warm, 
The  chimneys  Im'e  the   laughing 
flame, 
The    bride  and   groom  take  happy 
hands, 
The  new-born  babe  awaits  a  na'ine. 

Who  knows  what  far-off  journey ers 
At    night    return     with     winged 
feet, 
To  cool  their  fever  in  the  brook, 
Or    haunt    the    meadow,    clover- 
sweet  ? 


And  yet  the  morning  mowers  find 
No  footprint  in  the  grass  they  mow, 

The  water's  clear,  unwritten  song 
Is  not  of  things  that  come  or  go. 

'Tis  not  forsaken  rooms  alone 
That  unseen  people  love  to  tread, 

Nor  in  the  moments  only  when 
The  day's  eluded  cares  are  dead. 

To  every  home,  or  high  or  low. 
Some  unimagined  guests  repair, 

Who  come  unseen  to  break  and  bless 
The  bread  and  oil  they  never  share. 


Roger  Riordan. 

INVOCATION. 

Come,  come,  come,  my  love,  come  and  hurry,  and  come,  my  dear; 

You'll  find  me  ever  loving  true,  or  lying  on  my  bier: 
For  love  of  you  has  burned  me  through  —  has  oped  a  gap  for  Death,  I  fear  ; 

O  come,  come,  come,  my  love,  before  his  hand  is  here, 

Though  angels'  swords  should  bar  your  way,  turn  you  not  back,  but 
persevere ; 

Though  heaven  should  send  down  fiery  hail,  rain  lightnings,  do  not  fear; 
Let  your  small,  exquisite,  white  feet  fly  over  cliffs  and  mountains  sheer. 

Bridge  rivers,  scatter  armed  foes,  shine  on  the  hill-tops  near. 

Like  citizens  to  greet  their  queen,  then  shall  my  hopes,  desires,  troop  out, 
Eager  to  meet  you  on  your  way  and  compass  you  about  — 

To  speed,  to  urge,  to  lift  you  on,  'mid  storms  of  joy  and  floods  of  tears. 
To  the  poor  town,  the  battered  wall,  delivered  by  your  spears. 

The  javelin-scourges  of  your  eye,  the  lightnings  from  your  glorious  facte, 
Shall  drive  away  Death's  armies  grayin  ruin  and  disgrace. 

Lift  me  you  shall,  and  succor  me;  my  ancient  courage  you  shall  rouse, 
Till  like  a  giant  I  shall  stand,  with  thunder  on  my  brows. 


Then,  hand  in  hand,  we'll  laugh  at  Death,  his  brainless  skull,  his  nerveless 
arm ; 

How  can  he  wreak  our  overthrow,  or  plot,  to  do  us  harm  ? 
For  what  so  weak  a  thing  as  Death  when  you  are  near,  when  you  are  near  ? 

Oh,  come,  come,  come,  my  love,  before  his  hand  is  here  I 


BITTER  —  RUSSELL, 


851 


Mary  L  Ritter. 

RECOMPENSE. 

Heart  of  my  heart !  when  that  great 

light  shall  fall, 
Burning  away  this  veil  of  earthly 

dust, 
And  I  behold    thee    beautiful    and 

strong. 
My  grand,  pure,  perfect  angel,  wise 

and  just; 
If  the  strong  passions  of  my  mortal 

life 
Should,  in  the  vital  essence,  still  re- 
main, 
Would  there  be    then  —  as    now  — 

some  cruel  bar 
Whereon  my  tired  hands  should  beat 

in  vain  ? 
Or  should  I,  drawn  and  lifted,  folded 

close 
In  eager-asking    arms,  unlearn   my 

fears 
And  in  one  transport,  ardent,  wild 

and  sweet, 
Receive  the  promise  of  the  endless 
years  '? 


T.  H.  Robertson. 

COQUETTE. 

"Coquette,"  my  love  they  some- 
times call, 

For  she  is  light  of  lips  and  lieart; 
What  though  she  smile  alike  on  all, 

If  in  her  smiles  she  knows  no  art  ? 

Like  some  glad  brook  she  seems  to 
be, 

That  ripples  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 
And  prattles  to  each  flower  or  tree. 

Which  stoops  to  kiss  it,  overhead. 

Beneath  the  heavens'  white  and  blue 
It  purls  and  sings  and  laughs  and 
leaps, 

The  sunny  meadows  dancing  through 
O'er  noisy  shoals  and  frothy  steeps. 


'Tis  thus  tlie  world    doth  see    the 
brook ; 
But  I  have  seen  it  otherwise, 
When  following  it  to  some  far  nook 
Where  leafy  shields  shut  out  the 
skies. 

And  there  its  waters  rest,  subdued. 

In  shadowy  pools,  serene  and  shy, 
Wherein  grave  thoughts  and  fancies 
brood 
And  tender  dreams  and  longings 
lie. 

I  love  it  when  it  laughs  and  leaps. 
But  love  it  better  when  at  rest  — 

'Tis  only  in  its  tranquil  deeps 
I  see  my  image  in  its  breast  I 


AN  IDLE  POET. 

'Tis  said  that  when  the  nightingale 

His  mate  has  found, 
He  fills  no  more  the  woodland  deeps 

With  songful  sound. 

I  sing  not  since  I  found  my  love, 

For,  like  the  bird's 
My  heart  is  full  of  song  too  sweet, 

Too  deep,  for  words. 


Irwin  Russell 

HER  CONQUEST. 

Muster  thy  wit,  and  talk  of  whatso- 
ever 
Light,     mirth-provoking     matter 
thou  canst  find : 
I  laugh,  and  own  that  thou,   with 
-    small  endeavor. 
Hast  won  my  mind. 

Be  silent  if  thou  wilt  —  thine  eyes  ex- 
pressing 
Thy   thoughts    and    feelings,    lift 
them  up  to  mine : 
Then  quickly  thou  shalt  hear  me, 
love,  confessing 
My  heart  is  thine. 


852 


SAXTON—  SHURTLEFF. 


And  let  that  brilliant  glance  become 
but  tender  — 
Return  me  heart  for  heart  —  then 
take  the  whole 
Of  all  that  yet  is  left  me  to  surrender: 
Thou  hast  my  soul. 

Now,  when  the  three  are  fast  in  thy 
possession, 
And  thou  hast  paid  me  back  their 
worth,  and  more, 
I'll  tell  thee — all  whereof  I've  made 
thee  cession 
Was  thine  before. 


Andrew  B.  Saxton. 

MIDSUMMER. 

MIDWAY  about  the  circle  of  the  year 
There  is  a  single  perfect  day  that  lies 
Supremely  fair  before  our  careless 
eyes ; 
After  the  spathes  of  floral  bloom  ap- 
pear, 
lief  ore  is  found  the  first  dead  leaf  and 
sere, 
It  comes  precursor  of  the  autumn 

skies, 
And  crown  of  spring's  endeavor. 
Till  it  dies 
We  do  not  dream  the  flawless  day  is 

here. 
And  thus,  as  on  the  way  of  life  we 
speed. 
Mindful  but  of  the  joys  we  hope  to 
see. 
We   never   think,    "  These    present 
hours  exceed 
All  that  has  been  or  that  shall  ever 
be;" 
Yet  somewhere  on  our  journey  we 

shall  stay 
Backward  to  gaze  on  our  midsummer 
day. 


DELA  T. 


Thou  dear,  misunderstood,  maligned 
Delay, 
What  gentler  hand  than  thine  can 
any  know! 


How  dost  thou  soften  Death's  un- 
kindly blow. 
And  halt  his  messenger  upon  the  way ! 
How  dost  thou  unto  Shame's  swift 
herald  say, 
"  Linger  a  little  with  thy  weight  of 

woe!" 
How  art  thou,  unto  those  whose 
joys  o'erflow, 
A  stern  highwayman,  bidding  passion 

stay, 
Robbing  the  lover's  pulses  of  their 
heat 
Within  the  lonesome  shelter  of  thy 
wood! 
Of  all  Life's  varied  accidents  we  meet 
Where  can  we  find  so  great  an  of- 
fered good  ? 
Even  the  longed-for  heaven  might 
seem  less  sweet 
Could  we  but  hurry  to  it  when  we 
would. 


Ernest  W.  Shurtleff. 

OUT  OF    THE  DARK. 

Day  like  a  flower  blossoms  from  the 

night, 
And  all  things  beautiful  arise  from 

things 
That  bear  a  lesser  grace.     The  lily 

springs 
Pure  as  an  angel's  soul,  and  just  as 

white. 
From  out  the  dark  clod  where  no  ray 

of  light 
E'er  creeps.     The  butterfly,  on  airy 

wings, 
Rises  from  the  cold   chrysalis   that 

clings 
To  some  dead,  mouldering  leaflet,  hid 

from  sight. 
If  thus  in  nature  all  things  good  and 

fair. 
And  all  things  that  the  grace  of  beauty 

wear, 
Begotten  are  of  things  that  hold  no 

charm. 
Then  will  I  seek  to  find  in  eveiy  care, 
And  every  sorrow,  and  in  all  the  harm 
That  comes  to  me,  a  pleasure  sweet 

and  rare. 


SPALDING—  THOMPSON. 


853 


Susan  Mark  Spalding. 

A  DESIRE. 

Let  me  not  lay  the  lightest  feather's 

weight 
Of  duty  upon  love.    Let  not,  my 

own, 
The  breath  of  one  reluctant  kiss  be 

blown 
Between  our  hearts.    I  would  not  be 

the  gate 
That  bars,  like   some  inexorable 

fate, 
The  portals  of  thy  life;  that  says, 

"  Alone 
Through  me  shall  any  joy  to  thee  be 

known!" 
Bather  the  window,  fragrant  early 

and  late 
With  thy  sweet,  clinging  thoughts, 

that  grow  and  twine 
Around  me  like  some  bright  and 

blooming  vine, 
Through  which  the  sun  shall  shed  his 

wealth  on  thee 
In  golden  showers ;  through  which 

thou  mayest  look  out 
Exulting    in    all    beauty,   without 

doubt, 
Or  fear,  or  shadow  of  regret  from  me. 


Edith  M.  Thomas. 

FLOWER  AND  FRUIT. 

In  the  spring,  perverse  and  sour, 
He  cared  not  for  bud  or  flower. 
Garden  row  or  blossomed  tree: 
Rounded  fruit  he  fain  would  see ; 
Vintage  glow  on  sunburnt  hills. 
Bursting  garners,  toiling  mills. 
Sheer  unreason ! 
Pity  'twere  to  waste  the  blooming 
season  I 

Wliat's  the  matter  ?    Now  he  sits 
Deep  in  thought ;  his  brow  he  knits 
Here  is  fruit  on  vine  and  bough,  — 
Malcontent!  what  seeks  he  now  ? 
Would  have  flowers  when  flowers 
are  none, 


So  in  love  with  springtime  grown  I 

Sheer  unreason ! 
Pity  'twere  to  waste  the  ripened  sea- 
son! 


Maurice  Thompson. 

THE  MORNING   HILLS. 
I. 

He  sits  among  the  morning  hills. 
His  face  is  bright  and  strong ; 

He  scans  far  heights,  but  scarcely 
notes 
The  herdsman's  idle  song. 

He  cannot  brook  this  peaceful  life. 
While  battle's  trumpet  calls; 

He  sees  a  crown  for  him  who  wir>s, 
A  tear  for  him  who  falls. 

The  flowery  glens  and  shady  slopes 

Are  hateful  to  his  eyes; 
Beyond    the    heights,   beyond    the 

StOlTOS, 

The  land  of  promise  lies. 

II. 

He  is  so  old  and  sits  so  still, 
With  face  so  weak  and  mild, 

We  know  that  he  remembers  naught, 
Save  when  he  was  a  child. 

His  fight  is  fought,  his  fame  is  won, 
liife's  highest  peak  is  past, 

The  laurel  crown,  the  triumph's  arch 
Are  worthless  at  the  last. 

The  frosts  of  age  destroy  the  bay,  — * 
The  loud  applause  of  men 

Falls  feebly  on  the  palsied  ears 
Of  fourscore  years  and  ten. 

He  does  not  hear  the  voice  that  bears 
His  name  around  the  world ; 

He  has  no  thought  of  great  deeds  done 
Where  battle-tempests  whirled. 

But  evermore  he's  looking  back, 
Whilst  memory  fills  and  thrills 

With  echoes  of  the  herdsman's  song 
Among  the  morning  hills. 


854 


TICKNOR. 


BEFORE  DAWN. 

A  KEEN,  insistent  hint  of  dawn 
Came  from  the  mountain  height; 

A  wan,  uncertain  gleam  betrayed 
The  faltering  of  the  niglit. 

The  emphasis  of  silence  made 

The  fog  above  the  brook 
Intensely  pale ;  the  trees  took  on 


Such  quiet  came,  expectancy 
Filled  all  the  earth  and  sky ; 

Time  seemed  to  pause  a  little  space ; 
I  heard  a  dream  go  by ! 


Frank  0.  Ticknor. 

LITTLE  GIFFEJSf, 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire ; 
Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen!) 
Spectre !  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen,  of  Tennessee! 

"  Take  him  and  welcome!"  the  sur- 
geons said ; 

Little  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead ! 

So  we  took  him;  and  brought  him 
where 

The  balm  was  sweet  in  the  summer 
air; 

And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  whole- 
some bed  — 

Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head  I 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated 

breath, — 
Skeleton  boy  against  skeleton  death. 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such  ? 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch ; 
And  still  a  glint  of  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  wouldn't  die. 

And  didn't.     Nay,  more!  in  death's 

despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  "  learned  to 

write." 
Bear  mother,  at  first,  of  course;  and 

then 


Dear  captain,   inquiring  about  the 

men. 
Captain's  answer:  of  eighty-and-five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive. 

Word  of  gloom  from  the  war,  one  day; 
Johnson  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say. 
Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away; 
A  tear — his  first — as  he  bade  good-by, 
Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye, 
"rZZ  write,  if  spared!"     There  was 

news  of  the  fight; 
But  none  of  Giffen.    He  did  not  write. 

I  sometimes  fancy  that,  were  I  king 
Of  the  princely  knights  of  the  golden 

ring. 
With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine 

ear. 
And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles 

here, 
I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 
The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry. 
For  "Little  Giffen,"  of  Tennessee. 


GRAY. 


Something  so  human-hearted 

In  a  tint  that  ever  lies 
Where  a  splendor  has  just  departed 

And  a  glory  is  yet  to  rise  I 

Gray  in  the  solemn  gloaming, 
Gray  in  the  dawning  skies; 

In  the  old  man's  crown  of  honor, 
In  the  little  maiden's  eyes. 

Gray  mists  o'er  the  meadows  brood- 
ing, 
Whence  the  world  must  draw  its 
best; 
Gray    gleams     in     the    churchyard 
shadows. 
Where  all  the  world  would  "  rest." 

Gray  gloom  in  the  grand  cathedral, 
Where  the  *'  Glorias"  are  poured, 

And,  with  angel  and  archangel, 
AVe  wait  the  coming  Lord. 

Silvery  gray  for  the  bridal. 

Leaden  gray  for  the  pall ; 
For  urn,  for  wreath,  for  life  and  death, 

Ever  the  Gray  for  all. 


TIiMROn  —  lVATTS. 


855 


and 


Gray  in  the  very  sadness 

Of  ashes  and  sackcloth ;  yea, 
While  our  raiment    of    beauty 
gladness 
Tarries,  our  tears  shall  stay; 
And  our  soul   shall    smile  through 

their  sadness, 
And  our  hearts  shall  wear  the  Gray. 


Henry  Timrod. 

HARK  TO  THE  SHOUTING   WIND' 

Hark  to  the  shouting  wind  1 

Hark  to  the  flying  rain! 
And  1  care  not  though  I  never  see 

A  bright  blue  sky  again. 

There  are  thoughts  in  my  breast  to- 
day 

That  are  not  for  human  speech ; 
But  I  hear  them  in  the  driving  storm, 

And  the  roar  upon  the  beach. 

And  oh !  to  be  with  that  ship 
That  I  watch  through  the  blinding 
brine ! 

0  wind !  for  thy  sweep  of  land  and 

sea! 
O  sea !  for  a  voice  like  thine ! 

Shout  on,  thou  pitiless  wind, 
To  the  frightened  and  flying  rain ! 

1  care  not  though  I  never  see 
A  calm  blue  sky  again. 


DECORATION  ODE, 


Sung  at  Magnolia  Cemetery, 
S.  a  1867. 

Sleep 


Charleston, 


sweetly     in    your    humble 
graves. 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause ; 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 
The    blossom    of    your   fame    is 
blown, 

And  somewhere  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone. 


Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 
Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied 
tombs, 
Behold!    your    sisters    bring    their 
tears. 
And  these  memorial  blooms, 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  will 
smile 
More  proudly  on  those  wreaths  to- 
day, 
Than  when   some  cannon-moulded 
pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  groimd 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies. 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned. 


A   COMMON  THOUGHT. 

Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet, 
In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 

In  the  dew-drop,  in  the  sunshine. 
Sleeps  a  solemn  day  for  me. 

At  this  wakeful  hour  of  midnight 

I  behold  it  dawn  in  mist. 
And  I  hear  a  sound  of  sobbing 

Through  the  darkness.     Hist,  oh, 
hist! 

In  a  dim  and  musky  chamber, 

I  am  breathing  life  away ! 
Some  one  draws  a  curtain  softly, 

And  I  watch  the  broadening  day. 

As  it  purples  in  the  zenith, 
As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 

There's  a  hush  of  death  about  me. 
And  a  whisper,  "  He  is  gone!" 


Isaac  Watts. 

INSIGNIFICANT  EXISTENCE, 

There  are  a  number  of  us  creep 
Into  this  world,  to  eat  and  sleep; 
And  know  no  reason  why  we're  bora^ 
But  only  to  consume  the  corn. 


856 


WELBT—  WHITMAN. 


Devour  the  cattle,  fowl,  and  fish, 
And  leave  behind  an  empty  dish. 
The  crows  and  ravens  do  the  same, 
Unlucky  birds  of  hateful  name ; 
Kavens    or    crows    might    fill    their 

places. 
And  swallow  corn  and  carcases, 
Then  if  their  tombstone,  when  they 

die, 
Be  n't  taught  to  flatter  and  to  lie, 
There's  nothing  better  will  be  said 
Than  that  "they've  eat  up  all  their 

bread. 
Drunk  up  their  drink,  and  gone  to 

bed." 


LORD,   WHEN  I  QUIT  THIS 
EARTHLY  STAGE. 

Lord,  when  I  quit  this  earthly 
stage. 

Where  shall  I  flee  but  to  thy  breast? 
For  I  have  sought  no  other  home. 

For  I  have  learned  no  other  rest. 

I  cannot  live  contented  here. 

Without  some  glimpses  of  thy  face ; 
And  heaven,  without  thy  presence 
there, 
Would    be   a   dark  and    tiresome 
place. 

My  God !    And  can  a  humble  child. 
That    loves  thee  with  a  flame  so 
high. 

Be  ever  from  thy  face  exiled. 
Without  the  pity  of  thy  eye  ? 

Impossible.     For  thine  own  hands 
Have  tied  my  heart  so  fast  to  thee. 

And  in  thy  book  the  promise  stands. 
That  where  thou  art  thy  friends 
must  be. 


THE  HEAVENLY  CANAAN. 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 
Where  saints  immortal  reign ; 

Eternal  day  excludes  the  night, 
And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 
And  never-fading  flowers; 

Death,  like  a  narrow  sea  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 


Sweet  fields,    beyond    the    swelling 
flood, 

Stand  dressed  in  living  green : 
So  to  the  Jews  fair  Canaan  stood, 

While  Jordan  rolled  between. 

But    timorous    mortals  .  start    and 
shrink, 

To  cross  this  narrow  sea ; 
And  linger,  trembling,  on  the  brink. 

And  fear  to  launch  away. 

Oh,  could  we  make  our  doubts  re- 
move. 

Those  gloomy  doubts  that  rise, 
And  see  the  Canaan  that  we  love 

With  unbeclouded  eyes;  — 

Could   we  but  climb  where   Moses 
stood, 
And  view  the  landscape  o'er, 
Not  Jordan's   stream  —  nor  death's 
cold  flood, 
Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. 


Amelia  B.  Welby. 

TWILIGHT  AT  SEA. 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew 
by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea. 

For  every  wave  with  dimpled  face 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 


Sarah  H.  Whitman. 

SONNETS  TO  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

When  first  I  looked  into  thy  glorious 

eyes. 
And  saw,  with  their  unearthly  beauty 

pained, 


WHITMAN. 


857 


Heaven  deepening    within    heaven, 

like  the  skies 
Of  autumn  nights  without  a  shadow 

stained,  — 
I  stood  as  one  whom  some  strange 

dream  enthralls: 
For,  far   away,    in    some    lost   life 

divine. 
Some    land    which    every   glorious 

dream  recalls, 
A  spirit  looked  on  me  with  eyes  like 

thine. 
E'en  now,  though  death  has  veiled 

their  starry  light, 
And  closed  their  lids  in  his  relentless 

night  — 
As  some  strange  dream,  remembered 

in  a  dream, 
Again  I  see  in  sleep    their  tender 

beam ; 
Unfading  hopes  their  cloudless  azure 

fill. 
Heaven  deepening  within    heaven, 

serene  and  still. 

n. 

K  thy  sad  heart,  pining  for  human 
love. 

In  its  earth  solitude  grew  dark  with 
fear. 

Lest  the  high  sun  of  heaven  itseif 
should  prove 

Powerless  to  save  from  that  phantas- 
mal sphere 

Wherein  thy  spirit  wandered  —  if  the 
flowers 

That  pressed  around  thy  feet  seemed 
but  to  bloom 

In  lone  Gethsemanes,  through  star- 
less hours, 

"VNTien  all  who  loved  had  left  thee  to 
thy  doom !  — 

Oh,  yet  believe  that  in  that  hollow 
vale 

Where  thy  soul  Ungers,  waiting  to  at- 
tain 

So  much  of  Heaven's  sweet  grace  as 
shall  avail 

To  lift  its  burden  of  remorseful 
pain,  — 

My  soul  shall  meet  thee,  and  its 
heaven  forego 

Till  God's  great  love  on  both,  one 
hope,  one  Heaven,  bestow. 


THE  LAST  FLOWERS, 

Dost  thou  remember  that  autumnal 
day 
When    by    the   Seekonk's   lovely 
wave  we  stood. 
And  marked  the  languor  of  repose 
that  lay. 
Softer  than  sleep,  on  valley,  wave, 
and  wood? 

A  trance  of  holy  sadness  seemed  to 
lull 
The  charmed  earth  and   circum- 
ambient air; 
And  the  low  murmur  of  the  leaves 
seemed  full 
Of  a  resigned  and  passionless  des- 
pair. 

Though  the  warm  breath  of  simimer 
lingered  still 
In  the  lone  paths  where  late  her 
footsteps  passed. 
The  pallid  star-flowers  on  the  purple 
hill 
Sighed  dreamily,  "  We  are  the  last 

—  the  last!" 

I  stood  beside  thee,  and  a  dream  of 
heaven 
Around  me  like  a  golden  halo  fell ! 
Then  the  bright  veil  of  fantasy  was 
riven. 
And  my    lips  murmured,   'Tare 
thee  well !  farewell ! " 

I  dared  not  listen  to  thy  words,  nor 
turn 
To  meet  the  mystic  language  of 
thine  eyes ; 
I  only  felt  their  power,  and  in  the 
urn 
Of  memory,  treasured  their  sweet 
rhapsodies. 

We  parted  then,  forever  —  and  the 
hours 
Of  that  bright  day  were  gathered  to 
the  past  — 
But  through  long,  wintry  nights  I 
heard  the  flowers 
Sigh  dreamily,  "  We  are  the  lastl 

—  the  last!" 


858 


YOUNG. 


William  Young. 


THE  HORSEMAN. 

Who  is  it  rides  with  whip  and  spur — 
Or  madman,  or  king's  messenger? 

The  night  is  near,  tlie  lights  begin 
To  glimmer  from  the  roadside  inn, 

And  o'er  the  moorland,  waste  and 

wide, 
The  mists  behind  the  horseman  ride. 

*'  Ho,  there  within  —  a  stirrup-cup ! 
No  time  have  I  to  sleep  or  sup. 

"  An  honest  cup !  —  and  mingle  well 
The  juices  that  have  still  the  spell 

*'To  banish   doubt    and    care,   and 

slay 
The  ghosts   that    prowl  the  king's 

highway." 

"And  whither  dost  thou  ride,  my 

friend  ?" 
**My  friend,  to  find  the  roadway's 

end." 

His  eyeballs  shone:   he  caught  and 

quaffed, 
With    scornful    lips,    the    burning 

draught. 

"  Yea,  friend,  I  ride  to  prove  my 

life; 
If  there  be  guerdon  worth  the  strife — 

"If  after  loss,  and  after  gain. 
And  after  bliss,  and  after  pain, 


"  There  be  no  deeper  draught  than 

this  — 
No  sharper  pain  —  no  sweeter  bliss — 

"  Nor  anything  which  yet  I  crave 
This  side,  or  yet  beyond  the  grave  — 

"  All  this,  all  this  I  ride  to  know; 
So  pledge  me,  gray-beard,  ere  I  go." 

"But  gold  thou  hast:  and  youth  is 

thine, 
And  on  thy  breast  the  blazoned  sign 

"Of    honor  —  yea,   and  Love   hath 

bound. 
With  rose  and  leaf  thy  temples  round. 

"  With  youth,  and  name,  and  wealth 

in  store. 
And  woman's  love,  what  wilt  thou 

more?  " 

*' '  What  more  ? '  '  what  more  ? '  thou 
gray-beard  wight? 

That  something  yet  —  that  one  de- 
light— 

"To  know!  to  know!  —  although  it 

be 
To  know  but  endless  misery ! 

"The  something  that  doth  beckon 

still. 
Beyond  the  plain,  beyond  the  hill, 

"  Beyond  the  moon,  beyond  the  sun, 
Where  yonder  shining  coursers  run. 

"Farewell!   Where'er  the  pathway 

trend, 
I  ride,  I  ride,  to  find  the  end! " 


INDEX  TO  FIEST  LINES 


A  bee  flew  in  at  my  window, Kimball, 31§ 

Abide  not  in  the  land  of  dreams, Burleigh 809 

Abide  witb  me  !  fast  falls  the  eventide, J^yte, 353 

A  bird  sang  sweet  and  strong, Curtis, 181 

A  blue-eyed  child  that  sits  amid  the  noon, Bennett, 37 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase), Hunt, 299 

A  brace  of  sinners,  for  no  good, Wolcot, 792 

A  certain  artist  — I've  forgot  his  name — Bijrom, 70S 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound, Campbell, Ill 

A  clergj'uian  who  longed  to  trace, F.  Bates, 687 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, Wilson, 657 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, Thaxter, 691. 

Across  the  steppe  we  journeyed, E.  D.  Proctor,     .    .    .  449 

A  district  school,  not  far  away, Palmer, 762 

Advancing  Spring  profusely  spreads  abroad,      ....  Bloomfield,      ....  40 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever Burns, 84 

A  face  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well,  ....  Wyatt, 677 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, Pringle, 437 

A  fellow  in  a  market  town, Wolcot, 792 

A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way, Dryden, 207 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, Wordsicorth,  ....  677 

A  fox,  full  fraught  with  seeming  sanctity, Dry  den, 722 

Afraid  of  critics  !  an  unworthy  fear, Mackay, 754 

After  so  long  an  absence, H.  W.  Loncifelloto, .    .  342 

After  this  feud  of  yours  and  mine. S.  M.B.  Piatt,    ...  420 

Against  her  foes  Religion  well  defends, Crabbe, 168 

Against  her  mouth  she  pressed  the  rose, Jennison, 832 

Age  has  now, liogers, 463 

A  good  man  there  was  of  religion, Chaucer, 810 

A  great  mind  is  an  altar  on  a  hill, Tupper 615 

A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear,   .    .    .    .  S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  136 

A  harmless  fellow,  wasting  useless  days, G.  Arnold, 23 

Ah,  deeply  the  minstrel  has  felt  all  he  sings,      ....  Landon, 327 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go  ! Spofford, 531 

Ah  me !  forevermore, Hayne, 255 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting  ; McCarthy, 369 

Ah,  my  Perilla  !  dost  thou  grieve  to  see Herrick, 266 

A  holy  stillness,  beautiful  and  deep, Sargent, 471 

Ah,  real  thing  of  bloom  and  breath, S.  Af.  B.  Piatt,   ...  419 

Ah  then,  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded  days  ! .    .    .  Allston, 19 

A  hundred  noble  wishes  fill  my  heart, Richardson,    ....  459 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race  ? Landor, 328 

Ah!  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of  Heaven? Thomson, 597 

Ah!  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb? Beattie, 34 

A  keen  insistent  hint  of  dawn, Thompson, 854 

Alas  —  how  light  a  cause  may  move, Moore, 385 

Alas,  long  suffering  and  most  patient  God, E.  B.  Broxoning,      .    .  67 

Alas  !  my  noble  boy  !  that  thou  shouldst  die  !    ...    .  Willis, 654 

Alas  !  the  setting  sun li.  Southey 515 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth, S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  136 

Alas,  to  our  discomfort  and  his  own, liogers, 460 

A  life  oji  the  ocean  wave, Sargent, 469 


860  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES. 

A  lily-girl,  not  made  for  this  world's  pain, O.  Wilde,   .    .    .    .    .  647 

A  lily  rooted  in  a  sacred  soil, Phelps, 416 

A  little  child,  beneath  a  tree Mackay, 361 

A  little  hand,  a  fair  soft  hand, Spofford, 530 

All  are  not  taken  !  they  are  left  behind, E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  63 

All  beautiful  things  bring  sadness, Trench, 603 

All  change  ;  no  death, E.  Young, 683 

All  conquest-flushed,  from  prostrate  Python,  came,  .    .     Thomson, 595 

All  day  1  heard  a  humming  in  my  ears, Boker, 45 

All  joy  was  bereft  me  the  day  that  you  left  me,      .    .    .    Scott, 480 

All  moveless  stand  the  ancient  cedar  trees, G.  Arnold, 23 

All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man, E.  Young, 677 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say Beers, 35 

All  round  the  lalce  the  wet  woods  shake, Trotcbridge,    ....  611 

All  the  kisses,  that  1  have  given, C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

"All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea," Phelps, 416 

All  the  world's  a  stage, Shakespeare,  ....  484 

All  things  have  a  double  power, Ji.  Southey,     ....  516 

All  things  once  are  things  for  ever  ; Lord  Houghton,  .    .    .  289 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  141 

All  winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air, Thomson, 593 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, Campbell, 109 

Almighty  Father  !  let  thy  lowly  child, E.  Elliott, 212 

Almost  at  the  root, Wordsworth,  ....  669 

Alone  1  walked  the  ocean  strand, Gould, 238 

A  lovely  sky,  a  cloudless  sun, Street 548 

Although  I  enter  not, Thackeray,     ....  585 

A  man's  life  is  a  tower, Tupper, 620 

A  man  so  various  that  he  seemed  to  be, Dryden, 722 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell, Allingham,     ....  18 

Amid  the  elms  that  interlace, Cranch, 174 

A  monarch  soul  hath  ruled  thyself,  O  Queen,     .    .    .    .  C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

Among  so  many,  can  He  care? Whitney, 638 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? Mickle, 372 

And  greedy  Avarice  by  him  did  ride, E.  Spenser,     ....  525 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  'tis  not  that  now,  ....    Byron, 103 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ? E.  Spenser,     ....  528 

And  is  the  SAvallow  gone  ? W.  Howitt,      ....  296 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace, Scott, 477 

And  now  arriving  at  the  Hall,  he  tried, Crabbe, 719 

And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  displayed,      .    .    .  Pope,      ......  767 

And  now,  while  winged  with  ruin  from  on  high,     .    .    .    Falconer, 217 

And  oh,  the  longing,  burning  eye  ! Leland, 339 

And  such  is  Human  Life  ;  so,  gliding  on, Rogers, 462 

And  thou  hast  stolen  a  jewel.  Death,      .' Massey, 368 

And  thou  hast  walked  about, H.  Smith, 511 

And  was  it  not  enough  that,  meekly  growing,     ....    Seaver, 482 

And  Avere  that  best,  Love,  dreamless,  endless  sleep?.    .    Gilder, 233 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, Byron, 105 

Angels  are  we,  that,  once  from  heaven  exiled,    ....     Trench, 606 

Anon  tired  laborers  bless  their  sheltering  home,    .    .    .  Bloomfield,      ....  40 

An  original  something,  fair  maid, Campbell, 708 

Answer  me,  burning  stars  of  night ! Hemans, 261 

A  poet  !  He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school, Wordsworth,  ....  674 

A  power  hid  in  pathos  ;  a  fire  veiled  in  cloud :    .    .    .    .  B.  B.  Lytton,  ....  841 

April  is  in ; Symonds. 559 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim Campbell, 117 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  135 

Arrived  at  home,  how  then  they  gazed  around,  ....    Crabbe, 165 

A  sad  old  house  by  the  sea, .    ,  H.  H.  Broicnell.  ...  68 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, H.  W.  Longfellow, .    .  343 

As  doctors  give  physic  by  way  of  prevention,      ....  Prior,      ......  772 

As  dyed  in  blood,  the  streaming  vines  appear,    .    .    ,    .  C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

A  sensitive  plant  in  a  garden  grew, Shelley, 493 

A  sentence  hath  formed  a  character, Tupper,  .......  619 

A  sentinel  angel  sitting  high  in  glory Hay,  .    .    .    .    .    .    .  254 

A  serener  blue, Thomson, 592 

As  I  came  round  the  harbor  buoy, Jngelnw, 307 

A  simple  child, Wordsworth,  ....  673 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES,  861 


A  simple,  sodded  mound  of  earth, Preston, 435 

As  1  was  sitting  in  a  wood, Afackay, 757 

Ask  nie  no  more  ;  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea,  ....     Tennyson, 578 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, Carew, 118 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here. Herrick, 266 

A  slanting  ray  of  evening  light J.  Taylor, 572 

As  leaves  turned  red, F.  Bates, 32 

As  light  November  sno\v8  to  empty  nests, E.  B.  Browning,      .    .  67 

As  lords  their  laborers'  hire  delay. Scott, 479 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, C.  E.  S.  Norton,      .    .  397 

A  sower  went  forth  to  sow, Gilder, 231 

As  precious  gums  are  not  for  lasting  fire, Dryden, 206 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay, Clough, 131 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foaming  track Moore, 388 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes, T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  10 

As  sweet  desire  of  day  before  the  day, Stcinburne.     ....  552 

A  steed,  a  steed  of  matchless  speed  ! Motherwell,     ....  392 

A  street  there  is  in  Paris  famous Thackeray,     ....  782 

As  thoughts  possess  the  fashion  of  the  mood,     ....    Abbey, 2 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, Tennyson, 577 

A  story  of  Ponce  de  Leon, Butterworth,  ....  89 

A  summer  mist  on  the  moimtain  heights, Webster 631 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away, Donne, 818 

As  when  a  little  child  returned  from  play, Miller, 373 

As  when  in  watches  of  the  night  we  see, Appleton, 19 

As  woodbine  weds  the  plants, Cowper, 161 

At  dawn  the  fleet  stretched  miles  away,     ..;.,.  J.  T.  Fields,   ....  225 

At  dawn  when  the  jubilant  morning  broke, J.  C.  E.  Dorr,      .    .    .  196 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever, Keats, 312 

A  thousand  daily  sects  rise  up  and  die, Dryden, 205 

A  thousand  years  shall  come  and  go, R.  T.  Cooke,    ....  152 

At  kirk  knelt  Valborg,  the  cold  altar-stone, G.  Houghton, ....  284 

At  midnight  in  his  guarded  tent, Halleck, 248 

At  our  creation,  but  the  word  was  said ; Quarles, 451 

A  traveller  across  the  desert  waste, Abbey. 1 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow,    ....    Campbell 115 

Autobiography  !  so  you  say, Havergal, 823 

Avoid  extremes  ;  and  shun  the  fault  of  such,     ....    Pope, 432 

A  weary  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro, Fenner, 222 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, Cunningham, ....  ISO 

A  wife,  as  tender,  and  as  true  withal, Dryden, 206 

Ay,  scatter  me  well,  'tis  a  moist  spring  day, E.  Cook, 149 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where, Shakespeare^  ....  487 

Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your  flight,      .    .    Allen, .  15 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth, Keats, 311 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! B.  Brotcning, ....  69 

Becalmed  along  the  azure  sky, Trowbridge,    ....  609 

Because  I  feel  that,  in  the  heavens  above, Poe, 425 

Because  I  hold  it  sinful  to  despond, Thaxter, 589 

Because  in  a  day  of  my  days  to  come Sangster, 468 

Because  I  wear  the  swaddling  bands  of  time,     .    .    .    .  S.  H.  Palfrey,     ...  847 

Because  love's  sigh  is  but  a  sigh, Winter, 660 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee A.  A.  Procter,     ...  442 

Behold  her  there  in  the  evening  sun, Larcom, 330 

Behold  the  rocky  wall. Holmes, 279 

Believe  not  that  your  inner  eye, Lord  Houghton,  .    .    .  287 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, .    Hood 739 

Bending  between  me  and  the  taper, A.  T.  DeVere,     ...    .  185 

Beneath  the  hill  you  may  see  the  mill, .    Saxe, 474 

Beneath  yon  tree,  observe  an  ancient  pair, Crabbe, 168 

Benighted  in  my  pilgrimage,— alone,— Tilton, 602 

Be  patient!  oh,  be  patient!  Put  your  ear  against  the  earth.  Trench, 604 

Beside  me,— in  the  car,— she  sat, Clough., 132 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way,     .    .    .  Goldsmith,      ....  235 

Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar, Shakespeare,  ....  485 

Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived Kemble 318 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping, Bonar, 48 

Bird  of  the  wilderness, i^oyg, 271 


862  INDEX  TO  FIBST  LINES, 

Black  bouglis  against  a  pale,  clear  sky, Lazarus, 337 

Black  Tragedy  let  slip  her  grim  disguise, T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  12 

Blame  not  tlie  times  in  which  we  live, Symmuls, 559 

Blessed  is  he  who  hath  not  trod  the  ways, A.  T.  De  Vere,     ...  186 

Blessiiigs  on  thee,  little  man,      ...         Whittiei\ 639 

Blessed  is  the  man  whose  heart  and  hands  are  pure  !     .  Symonds, 558 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, Shakespeare,  ....  484 

Blow,  northern  winds ! Hoi)kins, 828 

Bonnie  Tibbie  Inglis, M.  Hoicitt, 295 

Bowed  half  with  age  and  half  with  reverence,    .    .    .    .  A.  Fields, 224 

Brave  spirit,  that  will  brook  no  intervention,     ....  Richardson,    ....  458 

Break,  break,  break, Tennyson, 584 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, Scott, 478 

Bright  as  the  pillar  rose  at  Heaven's  command,      .    .    .  Campbell, 116 

Bright  books  !  the  perspectives  to  our  weak  sights,    .    .  Vaughan 626 

Bright  shadows  of  true  rest !  some  shoots  of  bliss,      .    .  Vaughan, 624 

Bright  Star  !  would  1  were  steadfast  as  thou  art,  .    .    .  Keats, 311 

Bring  poppies  for  a  weary  mind, Winter, 658 

Brown  bird,  with  a  wisp  in  your  mouth, Braddock, 805 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee, Emerson, 214 

"  But  a  week  is  so  long  !"  he  said,      . J.  C.  It.  Dorr,     .    .    .  195 

But  grant,  the  virtues  of  a  temperate  prime, S.  Johnson,     ....  308 

But  happy  they  !  the  happiest  of  their  kind  !      ....  Thomson,    ...         .  591 

But  list !  a  loAV  and  moaning  sound, Wilson 657 

But  not  e'en  pleasure  to  excess  is  good, Thomson, 596 

But  noAv  the  games  succeeded,  then  a  pause, A.  Fields 223 

But  what  strange  art,  what  magic  can  dispose,  ....  Crabbe, 170 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? Beattie, 34 

By  Kebo's  lonely  mountain, Alexander,      ....  12 

By  numbers  here  from  shame  or  censure  free,    .    .    .    .  S.  Johnson,     ....  309 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, Finch, 227 

By  the  motes  do  Ave  know  where  the  sunbeam  is  slanting,  M.  M.  Bodge,     .    .    .  192 

By  the  pleasant  paths  we  know, Prescott, 433 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, Emerson, 215 

By  these  mysterious  ties,  the  busy  power, Akenside, 5 

Bj'  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone, Soyt, 296 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm,    ., Bonar, 48 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  our  God, Hemans, 263 

Care  lives  with  all ;  no  rules,  no  precepts  save, ....  Crabbe, 169 

Centre  of  light  and  energy  !  thy  way, Percival, 411 

Charlemagne,  the  mighty  monarch, W.  A.  Butler,      ...  87 

Cheap,  mighty  art !  her  art  of  love, Vaughan, 622 

Children,  that  lay  their  pretty  garlands  by, Craik, 172 

"  Choose  thou  between  !  "  and  to  his  enemy,      ....  Bensel, 38 

Christ,  whose  glory  tills  the  skies Wesley, 632 

Clear,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake, Bijron, 101 

Cleon  hath  ten  thousand  acres, Riackay, 362 

Close  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  ! Boker, 47 

Cold  in  the  earth  —  and  the  deep  snow, E.  Bronte, 54 

Cold  is  the  pajan  honor  sings, Winter, 661 

Come  a  little  nearer,  doctor, — Willson, 655 

Come,  brother,  turn  with  me  from  pining  thought,     .    .  Dana, 182 

Come,  come,  come,  my  love,  come  and  hurry,     ....  Riordan, 850 

Come,  Disappointment,  come  ! H.  K.  White,  ....  635 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud Tennyson, 508 

Come,  let  us  anew  our  joixrney  pursue, Wesley, 633 

Come,  listen  all  unto  my  song, Saxe, 775 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, Marlowe 842 

Come  not  when  I  am  dead, Tennyson, 585 

Come,  sleep,  O  sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace,     ...  Sidney 499 

Comes  something  down  with  eventide, Burbidge, 809 

Come,  then,  rare  politicians  of  the  time, Vaughan, 623 

Come,  then,  tell  me,  sage  divine, Akenside, 4 

Come,  ye  disconsolate,  where'er  ye  languish,      ....  Moore, 387 

Companion  dear  !  the  hour  draws  nigh  ; Sigoumey, 499 

Conflde  ye  aye  in  Providence,  for  Providence  is  kind,    .  Ballantyne,    ....  28 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime  ; D.  G.  Eossetti,    .    .    .  467 

♦'  Coquette,"  my  love  they  sometimes  call, Robertson, 861 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  863 

Couched  in  the  rocky  lap  of  hills Coolidge, 814 

Could  we  but  know, Stedman, 636 

Could  you  come  back  to  me,  Douglas, Craik 172 

Count  each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave A.  T.  DeVere,     ...  185 

Crouch  no  more  by  the  ivied  wallSj Stedman 637 

Crushing  the  scarlet  strawberries  in  the  grass,  ....  Thaxter 589 

Darkness  before,  all  joy  behind  ! G.  Houghton, ....  285 

Darlings  of  the  forest, Cooke 152 

Dashing  in  big  drops  on  the  narrow  pane; Burleigh, 809 

Daughter  of  Love  !  Out  of  the  flowing  river, A.  Fields, 223 

Day  dawned  :  — within  a  curtained  room, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  445 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying  ; Brooks, 55 

Day,  like  a  flower,  blossoms  from  the  night, Shurtleff, 852 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn, H.  Smith 510 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  boon  ; Holland, 272 

Dead,  lonely  night,  and  all  streets  quiet  now,    ....  Morris, 300 

Dead?  Thirteen  a  month  ago, E.B.Browning,      .    .  61 

Dear  child  of  nature,  let  them  rail ! Wordsworth,  ....  671 

Dear  Ellen,  your  tales  are  all  pleuteously  stored,  .    .    .  Bloomjield,      ....  43 

Dear  friend,  far  otf,  my  lost  desire Tennyson, 576 

Dear  friend.  I  know  not  if  such  days  and  nights,   .    .    .  Symonds, 560 

Dear,  harmless  age  !  the  short,  swift  span, Vaughan, 622 

Dear,  secret  greenness  !  nurst  below  ! Vaughan 621 

Death  but  entombs  the  body ; '    .    ,    .    .  E.  Young, 681 

Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there, Shelley, 492 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove Percival, 413 

Dey  vented  to  the  Opera  Uaus, Leland, 744 

Didst  thou  ne'er  see  the  swallow's  veering  breast, .    .    .  Baillie, 27 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, Lever, 745 

Die  down,  O  dismal  day,  and  let  me  live  ; D.  Gray, 822 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon  and  stars, ....  I>ryden. 204 

Discard  soft  nonsense  in  a  slavish  tongue, W.  Collins, 145 

Discourage  not  thyself,  my  soul, Wither, 663 

Disdain  me  not  without  desert Wyatt, 677 

Distrust  that  word E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  688 

Do,  and  sutt'er  naught  in  vain  ; E.  Elliott, 212 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? C.  G.  I'ossetti,    .    .    .  464 

Dost  know  the  way  to  Paradise? Hutchinson,    ....  830 

Dost  thou  remember  that  autumnal  day, Whitman, 857 

Do  the  dead  carry  their  cares H.  H.  Brownell, ...  58 

Doubtless  the  pleasure  is  as  great, S.  Butler, 701 

Down  by  the  river's  bank  I  strayed, Lover, 347 

Dow's  Flat.    That's  its  name, Bret  Harte,     ....  727 

Do  you  remember,  my  sweet,  absent  son, G.  P.  Lathrop,   .    .    .  334 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, Jonson, 309 

Dubius  is  such  a  scrupulous  good  man, Cotcper, 714 

Earl  March  looked  on  his  dying  child, Campbell 115 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  earth  gives  us, Loicell, 349 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair, Wordsworth,  ....  673 

Eftsoones  unto  an  holy  hospital, Spenser, 527 

Erewhile  the  sap  has  had  its  will, Hoph-ins 829 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind, Byron, 93 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky, Wordsworth,  ....  673 

Even  as  a  nurse,  whose  child's  impatient  pace,  ....  Vatighan, 626 

Ever  let  the  fancy  roam  ; Keats, 311 

Every  coin  of  earthly  treasure, Saxe, 476 

Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb, Parsons,     .....  410 

Fair  as  the  dawn  of  the  fairest  day, Hayne, 256 

Fair  is  thy  face,  Nantasket, Clemmer, 130 

Fair  time  of  calm  resolve  —  of  sober  thought !   .    .    .    .  Hedderwick 258 

False  and  fickle,  or  fair  and  sweet, P.  Carey, 124 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever, Byron, 92 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  my  greatness  !  .    .    .    .  Shakespeare,  ....  487 

Farewell,  Life  !  my  senses  swim, Hood 283 

Farewell,  old  friend,— Ave  part  at  last ; E.Cook, 150 

Farewell,  Renown !  Too  fleeting  flower, Dobson 190 


864  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES. 

Farewell !  since  nevermore  for  thee, Hervey, 268 

Farewell,  thou  bnsy  world,  and  may, Cotton, 154 

Father,  I  will  not  ask  for  wealth  or  fame, Parker, 406 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, Pope, . 433 

Fear  death  ?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, i?.  Brovming,      ...  68 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, Shakespeare,  ....  488 

Fever  and  fret  and  aimless  stir, Faher, 217 

Few  know  of  life's  beginnings  —  men  behold  —  .    .     .    .    Landon, 326 

First  follow  Nature,  and  your  judgment  frame,      .     .     .    Pope, 432 

First,  from  each  brother's  hoai'd  a  part  they  draw,     .    .  Crabbe,   .    .    .    .    .    .  717 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed, E.  B.  Broiiming,     .    .  64 

Fixed  to  her  necklace,  like  another  gem, T.  B.  Aldrich,'^  ...  12 

Flutes  in  the  sunny  air  ! Hervey, 267 

Fly,  envious  Time,  till  thou  run  out  thy  race,    ....    Milton, ,  374 

Fly  fro'  the  press,  and  dwell  with  soothfastnesse,  .    .    .    Chaucer, 811 

Foes  to  our  race  !  if  ever  ye  have  known, Crabbe, 168 

Foiled  by  our  fellow-men,  depressed,  outworn,  ....    A/.  Arnold 24 

"  Forever  with  the  Lord  !  " Montgomery.  ....  385 

For  every  sin  that  comes  before  the  light, J.  B.  O'Reilly,    .    .    .  401 

"Forget  me  not."  Ah,  words  of  useless  warning,  .    .    .     Sargent, 469 

For  him  who  must  see  many  years, M.  Arnold,      ....  25 

For  Love  1  labored  all  the  day, Bourdillon,     ....  50 

For  mystery  is  man's  life, Tupper, 620 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched,     .    .    .    .  S.  1.  Coleridge,  ...  125 

For  us  the  almond  tree, Tilton, 598 

For  woman  is  not  luideveloped  man Tennyson,  .....  578 

Four  straight  brick  walls,  severely  plain, Mitchell, 844 

Frank-hearted  hostess  of  the  field  and  wood,     ....    Lotvell, 351 

Friend  after  friend  departs  ; Montgomery,  ....  384 

Friendship,  like  love  is  but  a  name, J.  Gay, 725 

Friends  of  faces  unknown  and  a  land, E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  65 

Friend,  whose  smile  has  come  to  be, E.  A.  Allen,    ....  15 

Frolic  virgins  once  these  were Herrick, 266 

From  the  morning  even  until  now, ,.    .    ,  C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  Spring Shakespeare,  ....  489 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, Tennyson, 582 

Gallants,  attend,  and  hear  a  friend, Hopkinson,     ....  742 

Gay,  guiltless  pair, Sprague, 532 

Gayly  and  greenly  let  my  seasons  run, Blanchard,     ....  801 

Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, Goldsmith, 236 

Genius  !  thou  gift  of  Heaven  !  thou  light  divine  !  .    .    .     Crabbe, 163 

Girt  with  the  grove's  aerial  sigh, Fatccett, 221 

"Give  me  a  motto,"  said  a  youth, Saxe, 473 

"  Give  me  a  son."    The  blessing  sent, J.  Gay, 726 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before, Earl  of  Surrey,  .    .    .  551 

"  Give  us  a  song !  "  the  soldiers  cried, Taylor, 668 

God  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep, Saxe, 777 

God  loves  from  whole  to  parts  ;  but  human  soul,   .    .    .     Pope, 431 

God  loves  not  sin,  nor  I ;  but  in  the  throng, Holland, 273 

God  makes  such  nights,  all  Avhite  an'  still, Lotvell, 749 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, Cotoper, 157 

God  said  -  "  Let  there  be  light !  " E.  Elliott, 211 

God  send  me  tears  ! Hayne,   .......  255 

God  sets  some  souls  in  shade,  alone, Whitney, 638 

Go,  forget  me  —  why  should  sorrow, Wolfe, 665 

Go  forth  in  life,  O  friend  !  not  seeking  love, A.  L.  Botta,    ....  50 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! Waller, 628 

Go  not,  happy  day, Tennyson, 581 

Good  men  are  the  health  of  the  world, Tupper, 620 

Good-night?  ah  !  no;  the  hour  is  ill, .    Shelley, 495 

Good-night,  pretty  sleepers  of  mine S.  M.  B.  Piatt,  .    .    .  419 

Go,  sophist!  dare  not  to  despoil, J.  T.  Fields,    ....  226 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest, Raleigh, 452 

"  Got  any  boys  ?  "  the  marshal  said, Saxe, 776 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  house  of  prayer  ! Southey,      .....  519 

Go,  triflers  with  God's  secret, Buchanan,      ....  807 

Grandmother's  mother  :  her  age  I  guess Holmes, 277 

Grave  politicians  look  for  facts  alone, Crabbe 71T 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES,  865 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, Halleck, 251 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, Hunt, 300 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! Logan, 341 

Hail,  free,  clear  heavens  !  above  our  heads  again, .    .    .    Lazarus, 336 

Hail,  holy  Light,  otfspring  of  Heaven  first-born,    .    .    .    Milton, 381 

Hail !  Independeuce,  hail !  Heaven's  next  best  gift, .    .     Thomson, 594 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit, Shelley, 490 

Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour, ....  Wordsworth,  ....  672 

Had  unambitious  mortals  minded  nought, Thomson, 596 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league Tennyson^ 584 

Hamelin  town's  in  Brunswick, li.  Brovming,  ....  690 

Hand  in  liand  with  angels, Larcom, 332 

Happy  are  they  who  kiss  thee,  morn  and  even, .    .    .    .  A.  T.  iJe  Vere,     ...  185 

Happy  the  mortal  man,  who  now  at  last, Prior, 439 

Hark,  tliat  sweet  carol !  With  delight, Street, 549 

Hark  !  'tis  the  twanging  horn  !  o'er  yonder  bridge,    .    .    Cowper, 161 

Hark  to  the  measured  march  !  —  The  Saxons  come,   .    .  £.  B.  Lytton, ....  839 

Hark  to  the  shouting  wind  ! Timrod, 855 

Hark  !  where  the  sweeping  scythe  now  rips  along,     .    .  Bloomfield,      ....  41 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star, S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  138 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun  ?  .    .    .    .    Emerson, 215 

Hath  this  world  without  me  wrought, Hedge, 259 

Have  mind  that  age  aye  follows  youth, Dunbar, 208 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell, T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  8 

Hearing  sweet  music,  as  in  fell  despite, Trench, 605 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — Poe, 424 

Heart  of  my  heart !  when  that  great  light  shall  fall,      .    Bitter, 851 

Heart  of  the  people  !  Workingmen ! Lord  Hmighton,  .    .    .  286 

Hearts,  like  apples,  are  hard  and  sour, Holland, 237 

Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all  night  till  morn,     .    .     Tennyson, 585 

He  erred,  no  doubt,  perhaps  he  sinned  : G.  Houghton 286 

He  falters  on  the  threshold Howells, 292 

He  had  played  for  his  lordship's  lev^e Dobson, 190 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, ....    Cowper, 158 

He  knew  the  seat  of  Paradise, S,  Butler, 700 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, Miltoji, 375 

Hence  to  the  altar,  and  with  her  thou  lov'st,      ....    Rogers, 461 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys, Milton 376 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere, Roberts 459 

Here  is  the  water-shed  of  all  the  year,    , R.  U,  Johnson,  .    .    .  834 

Here  she  lies,  a  pretty  bud, Herrick, 266 

Here,  too,  came  one  who  bartered  all  for  power,    .    .    .    Mitchell, 370 

Her  hands  are  cold,  her  face  is  white  ; Holmes, 278 

Herr  Schnitzer  make  a  philosopede, Leland, 745 

Her  sutfering  ended  with  the  day  ; J.  Aldrich, 8 

He  saw  in  sight  of  his  house, Stoddard 780 

He  sins  against  this  life  who  slights  the  next.     .    .    .    .    E.  Young, 681 

He  sits  among  the  morning  hills, Thompson, 853 

He  taught  the  cheerfulness  that  still  is  ours, Blanchard 802 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, Carew, 118 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, M.  Arnold,      ....  25 

He  touched  his  harp,  and  nations  neard, Pollok, 428 

He  was  a  man  of  that  unsleeping  spirit, Sir  H.  Taylor,    .    .    .  569 

He  was  a  man  whom  danger  could  not  daunt,     ....  Sir  A.  De  Vere,    .    .    .  184 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, S.  Butler, 699 

He,  while  his  troop  light-hearted  leap  and  play,    .    .    .    Crabbe, 164 

He  Avho  died  at  Azan  sends, E.  Arnold, 21 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  .the  dead, Byron, 97 

Higher,  higher  will  we  climb, Alontgomery,  ....  384 

High  wails  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, Garrison, 229 

Hints,  shrewdly  strown,  mightily  disturb  tne  spirit,  .    .     Tupper 617 

His  love  hath  filled  my  life's  fair  cup M.  A.  DeVere,    ...  817 

Hither,  Sleep  !  a  mother  wants  thee  ! Holland, 274 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead, Tennyson, 577 

Honor  ana  shame  from  no  condition  rise, Pope, 431 

Hoot,  ye  little  rascal !  ye  come  it  on  me  this  way, .    .    .    Carlefon, 709 

How  are  songs  begot  and  bred? Stoddard, 541 

How  beautiful  is  night ! R.  Southey,     ....  516 


866  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES, 

How  better  am  I, Kimball,     .....  320 

How  blest  should  we  be,  have  I  often  conceived,    .    .    .  li.  B.  Lytton,  ....  841 

How  canst  thou  call  my  modest  love  impure,      ....    Boker, 46 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood,  Woodworth,    ....  666 

How  delicious  is  the  winning, Campbell, 110 

How  does  the  water, li.  Southey,     ....  521 

How  do  1  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the  ways,    .    .    .    .  E.  B.  Browning,      .    .  64 

How  graciovis  we  are  to  grant  to  the  dead, S.  M.  B.  Piatt,    .    .    .  420 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, Wotton, 676 

How  hard,'  when  those  who  do  not  wish  to  lend,     .    .    .    Hood, 741 

How,  how  am  1  deceived  !  I  thought  my  bed,     ....     Quarles, 451 

How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm  ? Lowell, 356 

"How  many  pounds  does  the  baby  weigh— Beers, 32 

How  many  summers,  love, B.  W.  Procter,    .    .    .  445 

How  misera  ble  a  thing  is  a  great  man  ! Crowne, .  179 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not  break  !    .    .    Allen, 14 

How  near  we  came  the  hand  of  death, Wither, 663 

HoAV  oft  in  visions  of  the  night, G.  S.  Hillard,     .    .    .  269 

How  one  can  live  on  beauty  and  be  rich, Webster, 630 

How  pleasant  it  is  that  always, jP.  Smith, 509 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, Tennyson, 575 

How  seldom,  friend  !  a  good  great  man  inherits,     .    .    .  S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  141 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps,     .    .    Bryant, 78 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest, W.  Collins,     ....  145 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth,      .    .    .    Milton, 380 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day  ! Grahame, 239 

How  sweet  and  gracious,  even  in  common  speech,      .    .  J.  T.  Fields,   ....  226 

How  vice  and  virtue  in  the  soul  contend  ; Crabbe, 169 

Ho  !  ye  who  in  the  noble  work, Massey 368 

Humanity  is  great ; E.  B.  Browning,      .    .  689 

Husband  and  wife  !  no  converse  now  ye  hola,    ....    Dana, 181 

Hush  !  speak  low  ;  tread  softly  ; A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  441 

Hush!  'tis  a  holy  hour,  —  the  quiet  room, Hemans, 262 

I  am  an  idle  reed  ; F.  A.  Hillard,     ...  827 

I  am  but  clay  in  thy  hands,  but  Thou, Cranch, 176 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care, Byrom, 705 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying,  .    .    .    .    • Lytic, 353 

I'm  far  frae  my  hame,  and  I'm  weary  aftenwhiles  :    .    .    Demarest, 183 

I  am  Hephaistos,  and  forever  here, A.  Fields, 224 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey, Coivper, 161 

I  am  Nicholas  Tacchinardi,  — hunchbacked,  look  you,  .  J.  T.  Fields,    ....  227 

I  am  thinking  to-night  of  the  little  child  ; J.  C.  B.  Dorr,     .    .    .  194 

I  asked  my  fair,  one  happy  day, S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  710 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers Shelley, 492 

I  can  go  nowhere  but  I  meet, Cotton, 154 

I  cannot  love  thee,  but  I  hold  thee  dear — F.Smith, 509 

I  cannot  make  him  dead  ! Pierpont, 422 

I  care  not.  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny ; Thomson, 596 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn,     .    .    Scott, 481 

I  count  my  time  by  times  that  I  meet  thee, Gilder, 232 

I  die  for  thy  sweet  love  !  The  ground, B.  W.  Procter,    .    .    .  446 

I  do  confess  thou'rt  smooth  and  fair, Ay  ton, 798 

I  do  not  own  an  inch  of  land, Larcom, 332 

I  don't  go  much  on  religion, Hay, 730 

I'd  rather  see  an  empty  bough, — Phelps, 417 

I  dreamed  I  had  a  plot  of  ground A.  Cary^ 121 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, W.  Collins,     ....  147 

I  fear  thee  not,  O  Death  !  nay,  of 1 1  pine, ,  Hayne, 257 

If  I  could  ever  sing  the  songs, Stoddard, 542 

If  I  had  known  in  the  morning,      . Sanqster, 468 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, Wolfe, 664 

If  it  must  be  —  if  it  must  be,  O  God  ! D.  Gray, 822 

If  life  awake  and  will  never  cease, Holland, 27^ 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, Swinburne,     ....  555 

If  on  the  book  itself  we  cast  our  view, Dryden, 204 

If  on  this  verse  of  mine, E.Arnold,      22 

I  found  a  fellow-worker,  when  I  deemed, O'Shaughnessy,  .    .    .  404 

If,  sitting  with  this  little  worn-out  shoe, M.  B.  Smith,  ....  513 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  867 

if  those,  who  live  in  shepherd's  bower, Thomson, 697 . 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, Heber, 258 

If  thou  wouliist  view  fair  Melrose  aright, Scott. 478 

If  to  be  absent,  were  to  be Lovelace 346 

If,  when  you  labor  all  the  day, Itichardbon,    ....  459 

If  you  love  me,  tell  me  not ; L.  Clark 128 

I  gave  my  little  girl  back  to  the  daisies, G.  Houghton,  ....  286 

I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky, Bryant, 73 

1  give  thee  treasures  hour  by  hour, li.  T.  Cooke,   ....  153 

I  greet  thee,  loving  letter  — J.  J.  Piatt 418 

I  grew  assured  before  I  asked Patmore, 410 

1  haf  von  funny  leedle  poy, C.  F.  Adams,  ....  685 

I  have  a  little  kinsman, ISteilman, 538 

I  have  been  sitting  alone, M.  Collins,     ....  144 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions,  ....    Lamb, 323 

1  hear  it  often  in  the'dark, Gannett, 228 

I  know  a  bright  and  beauteous  May, Stoddard, 781 

I  know  a  girl  with  teeth  of  pearl, Saxe, 475 

I  know  not  how  it  is  ; Webster, 629 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays  ; Drummond 198 

I  lie  in  the  summer  meadoAVS, B.  Taylor, 566 

I  like  a  church  ;  I  like  a  cowl ; — Emerson, 213 

"I'll  take  the  orchard  path,"  she  said, Perry, 415 

I  long  have  been  puzzled  to  guess, Saxe, 775 

I  long  have  had  a  quarrel  set  with  Time, Blunt, 802 

I  lost  my  treasures  one  by  one, Al.  B.  Dodge, ....  817 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, P.  P.  Cooke,  ....  151 

I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, Willis, 651 

I'm  not  a  chicken  !  I  have  seen, Holmes, 733 

I'm  not  where  I  was  yesterday, Lord  Houghton, .    .    .  286 

I  mourn  no  more  my  vanished  years, Whittier 641 

I  must  lament,  Nature  commands  it  so  : Quarles, 451 

I'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean, A'aim, 394 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland,    .  Swinburne,      ....  553 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, Branch, 53 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care,      .    .    .  Goldsmith,      ....  235 

In  eldest  time,  ere  mortals  writ  or  read, Pope, 765 

I  never  cast  a  flower  away, C.  B.  Southey,    .    .    .  515 

In  every  village  marked  with  little  spire, Shenstone, 496 

In  hazy  gold  tlie  hillside  sleeps, Boker, 804 

In  later  years  veiling  its  unblest  face, Trowtyridge,    ....  608 

In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours, Tennysoii, 580 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes,   ....    Emerson, 214 

In  my  nostrils,  the  summer  wind, T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  10 

In  peace,  Love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed, Scott, 478 

In  purple  robes  old  Sliavnamon, Joyce, 835 

In  schools  of  wisdom  all  the  day  was  spent : Trench, 604 

In  silent  ease,  at  least  in  silence,  dine, Cralbe, 718 

Interred  beneath  this  marble  stone, Prior, 773 

In  the  balmy  April  weather, Tilton, 600 

In  the  dewy  depths  of  the  grave-yard, Hiy 253 

In  Thee,  O  blessed  God,  1  hope Blackie, 800 

In  the  fireshine  at  the  twilight, Whitney, 638 

In  the  garden  of  death,  where  the  singers, Swinburne,     ....  652 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, Herrick, 266 

In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells, Pope, 429 

In  the  spring,  perverse  and  sour, Thomas, 853 

In  the  stormy  waters  of  Galloway, A.  Gary. 120 

In  the  warmValley,  rich  in  summer's  wealth,    .    .    .    .  S.  D.  Clark,    ....  128 

Into  a  city  street, R.  S.  Palfrey,     ...  405 

Into  a  ward  of  the  wliitewashed  walls, Lacoste, 323 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies, W.  Collins,     ....  148 

I  once  was  a  jolly  young  beau, Saxe, -779 

I  only  polished  am  in  mine  own  dust  — Trench,  ....  606 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart, Suckling, 650 

I  remember,  I  remember, Hood, 280 

A  said,  if  I  might  go  back  again P.  Carij, 126 

I  sat  in  a  darkened  chamber, Ellis  Gray,     ....  823 

I  saw  a  child,  once,  that  had  lost  its  waj, Mason SI: 


868  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES. 

I  saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining,   .  Moore,  ' 387 

1  saw  the  little  boy, Earl  of  Stirreij.  ...  551 

I  saw  the  long  line  of  the  vacant  shore,      ......  H.  W.  Longfellow,  .    .  343 

I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning, Brainard, 52 

I  saw  two  maids  at  the  kirk^ Stoddard, 540 

1  say,  whatever  you  maintain, M.  Prior, 774 

I  see  the  ancient  master  pale  and  worn, Landon, 327 

I  shall  not  ask  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau, Cowper, 716 

I  shall  not  see  thee.    Dare  I  say, Tennyson, 575 

I  sit  on  the  lonely  headland B.  Taylor, 5&4 

Is  it  not  possible  that  all  the  love, Brackett, 52 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he  : R.  Browning, ....  70 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, Burns, 82 

Is  this  a  fast  — to  keep— Herrick, 267 

I  stopped  to  read  the  milestone  here, J.  J.  Piatt 418 

It  comes  betwixt  me  and  the  amethyst, Preston, 435 

I  thought  to  find  some  healing  clime, P.  Cary, 127 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, Wordsworth,  ....  675 

It  is  enough  :  1  feel,  this  golden  morn, Preston, 436 

It  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sign, Hood, 284 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree, B.  Jonson 310 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, H.  K.  White,  ....  634 

It  is  the  good  of  dreams  —  so  soon  they  go  ! 11.  Browning,  ....  71 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter, Tennyson, 579 

It  is  the  Soul  that  sees  ;  the  outward  eyes, Crabhe, 167 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud — Stowe 544 

It  must  be  so  — Plato,  thou  reason'st  well!—     ....  Addison, 4 

It  must  be  so,  poor,  fading,  mortal  thing  ! Gould, 238 

It's  O  my  heart,  my  heart, »    .    .    .  Coolbrith, 153 

It's  very  hard  !  —  and  so  it  is, Hood, 736 

It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  it's  we  two  for  aye, Ingeloio, 307 

It  was  a  blithesome  young  jongleur, J.  T.  Fields,   ....  225 

It  was  an  old,  distorted  face,— Whitney, 637 

It  was  a  summer  evening, R.  Southey,     ....  520 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago Poe, 423 

It  was  not  in  the  winter, Hood, 284 

It  was  not  meant, H.  Taylor, 571 

It  was  the  Avinter  wild, Milton, 379 

I've  drunk  good  wine, Mackay, 757 

I've  heard  the  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, J.  Elliot, 210 

I've  regretted  most  sincerely, G.  Houghton,  ....  285 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, Motherwell,    ....  392 

I  wait, Clemmer 131 

I  waked  from  slumber  at  the  dead  of  night, Sargent, 470 

I  wandered  by  the  brookside, Lord  Houghton,  .    .    .  287 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud, Wordsioorth,  ....  671 

I  was  a  young  fair  tree  ; Alford, 13 

1  vf'iW  not  love  I    These  sounds  have  often, Landon,      .....  328 

I  will  paint  her  as  I  see  her  ; E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  63 

I  won  a  noble  fame  ; ■ Tilton, 601 

I  wonder,  child,  if,  when  you  cry, Helen  Rich,     ....  849 

I  wonder  if  the  sap  is  stirring  yet, C.  G.  Rossetti,    ...  465 

I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week  — T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  10 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends, Cowper, 160 

Jerusalem  the  Golden  ! Massey, 367 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, Burns, 84 

John  Day,  he  was  the  biggest  man, Hood, 735 

John  Dobbins  was  so  captivated, Anonymous,    ....  793 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen, ,    .  Cowper, 711 

Johnson  was  right.    I  don't  agree  to  all, Saxe, 778 

Judge  not ;  the  workings  of  his  brain, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  440 

Just  when  we  think  we've  fixed  the  golden  mean, .    .    .  Preston, 434 

Keep  faith  in  Love,  the  cure  of  every  curse, Miller, 374 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low  ; Saxe, 476 

Know  then  this  truth  (enough  for  man  to  know)    .    .    .  Pope 431 

Know  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan,    ....  Pope, 430 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  869 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, Tennyson, 683 

lAdy,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest  youth, Milton, 380 

Lady,  when  first  the  message  came  to  me, Symonds, 560 

LaocoSn !  thou  great  embodiment, Holland, 275 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusiura, Macaulat/, 354 

Late,  late,  so  late  !  and  dark  the  night  and.  chill ! .    .    .     Tenni/soii, 581 

Late  or  early,  home  returning, Alackay, 363 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner ! C.  B.  iSouthey,     .    .    .  514 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  roses  have  blushed, Stedman, 535 

Leaning  my  bosom  on  a  pointed  thorn, Trench, 605 

Leaves  nave  their  time  to  fall, Hemans, 2r>l 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, Bryant, 78 

Let  me  not  deem  that  1  was  made  in  vain H.  Coleridge,  ....  134 

Let  me  not  lay  the  lightest  feather's  weight,      ....    Spalding, ' 853 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds, Shakespeare,  ....  489 

Let  no  poet,  great  or  small, Stoddard, 541 

Let  thy  gold  be  cast  in  the  furnace, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  442 

Let  winter  come  !  let  polar  spirits  sweep, Campbell, 116 

Let  your  truth  stand  sure, G.  Houghton,  ....  286 

Life  answers,  •'  No  !  If  ended  here  be  life, E.  Bulwer  Lytton,  .    .  838 

Life  evermore  is  fed  by  death, Holland, 273 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art,, Barbauld, 28 

Life's  mystery,  — deep,  restless  as  the  ocean Stowe 544 

Life's  sadly  solemn  mystery, A.  Cary, 122 

Life  will  be  cone  ere  I  have  lived ; C.  Bronti, 54 

Light  after  darkness, Havergal, 825 

Like  a  lady's  ringlets  bro^vn, E.  B.  'Browning,     .    .  62 

Like  morning  blooms  that  meet  the- sun, Collier, 143 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere, Lodge, 340 

Listed  into  the  cause  of  sin, Wesley, 632 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth.  . C.  Smith, 507 

Lo,  from  the  city's  heat  ana  dust, J.  J.  Piatt,      ....  418 

Lo!  here  a  little  volume,  but  large  book, Crashaw, 816 

Lo  !  here  the  best,  the  worst,  the  world, Hood, 279 

Lo,  it  is  the  even  of  To-day,  — Tapper, 621 

Long  waited  for,  the  lingering  sun  arose  ;......    Moulton, 846 

liOOk  at  his  pretty  face  for  just  one  minute  ! Craik, 172 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, Craik, 171 

Look  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands,      ....    Lanier, 328 

Look  through  mine  eyes  with  thine, Tennyson, 579 

Ix)ok,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life,     ....  Shakespeare,  ....  488 

Lord,  for  the  erring  thought, Hoioells, 292 

Ix)rd,  living  here  are  we — Wither, 662 

Lord,  many  times  I  am  aweary  quite, Trench, 603 

Lord,  what  a  busy,  restless  thing, Vaughan, 622 

Lord,  what  a  change  within  U9  one  short  hour,  ....     Trench 602 

Lord,  when  I  quit  this  earthly  stage, Watts, 856 

Lord,  with  what  care  hast  thou  begirt  us  round,    .    .    .    Herbert, 265 

Lo  !  that  small  office  !  there  th'  incautious  guest,      .    .     Crabbe, 718 

Love,  dearest  lady,  such  as  I  would,  speak,     .    .    .    .  ".    Hood, 284 

Love  is  too  great  a  happiness, S.  Butler 87 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind  ! Pamell, 407 

Love  me  if  I  live  ! B.  W.  Procter,    ...  444 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, Tennyson, 579 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! Hood, 280 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time, Tennyson, 573 

Love,  when  all  these  years  are  silent, Spofford 529 

Lo !  where  the  rosy-bosomed  hours, T.  Gray, 243 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, Byron, 94 

Make  me  no  vows  of  constancy,  dear  triend, Allen, 16 

Manhood  at  last !  and,  with  its  consciousness,  ....    Simms, 503 

Man  is  to  man  the  sorest,  surest  ill, E.  Young, 681 

Man  must  soar  ; E.  Young, 683 

Man  to  the  last  is  but  a  froward  child ; Rogers, 461 

Man  will  not  follow  where  a  rule  is  shown, Crabbe 165 

Many  are  poets  who  have  never  penned, Byron, 99 

Marion  showed  me  her  wedding  gown, J.  C.  S.  Dorr,     ...  198 

Mark  that  swift  arrow,  how  it  cuts  the  air, Cowley, 156 


59 


870  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES, 

IVIartial,  the  things  that  do  attain, Earl  of  Surrey,  ...  551 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, J.  G.  Whittier,    ...  643 

Men  of  thought,  be  up  and  stirring Mackay.      .    .    .     ,  '='"> 

Midnight  in  drear  New  England, Brownell 

Mid  the  flower-wreathed  tombs  I  stand, Jligginson,  .     .    .    , 

Midway  about  the  circle  of  the  year, Saxton, 852 

Mild  offspi-ing  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! H.  K.  White,  ....  634 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  ;    Howe, 289 

Mine  to  the  core  of  the  heart,  my  beauty  ! Craik, 171 

Minutely  trace  man's  life  ;  year  after  year, Crabbe, 168 

Misfortune,  I  am  young— my  chin  is  bare, H.  K.  White,  ....  636 

jNIonth  which  the  warring  ancients  strangely  styled, .     .    Jackson, 831 

"  More  poets  yet !  "  I  hear  him  say, Dobson, 722 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear, Beaumont, 37 

Most  perfect  attribute  of  love,  that  knows, Preston, 434 

Mother,  in  the  sunset  glow, Butts, 89 

Mother  of  tortures  !  persecuting  Zeal, Thomson, 595 

Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave, Tennyson, 585 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold,      ....     Keats, 314 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, Shelley, 492 

Muster  thy  wit,  and  talk  of  whatsoever, Jiussetl, 851 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there, Loicell, 751 

My  conscience  is  my  crown  ; Southwell, 523 

My  critic  Hammond  flatters  prettily, E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  689 

My  daughter  !  with  thy  name  this  song  begun,  ....    Byron, 105 

My  days  pass  pleasantly  away  ; Saxe, 474 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you,      ....    Kingsley, 321 

My  friendly  fire,  thou  blazest  clear  and  bright, .    .    .     .  R.  Southey,     ....  522 

My  God,  I  thank  Thee,  who  hast  made, A.  A.  Procter,     ...  440 

My  grief  or  mirth, A.  T.  Be  Vere,     .    .    .  184 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains,      .    .    .    Keats, 312 

My  held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, Motherwell,    ....  391 

My  liege,  your  anger  can  recall  your  trust, E.  B.  Lytton,  ....  839 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, P.  H.  Wilde,  ....  649 

My  little  child,  so  sweet  a  voice  might  wake,      .    .    .    .  S.  M.  B.  Piatt,    .    .    .  421 

]\Iy  little  love,  do  you  remember, P.  B.  Lytton,  ....  840 

My  little  maiden  of  four  years  old  — Whitney, 638 

INIy  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, Dyer, 819 

Mynheer,  blease  helb  a  boor  oldt  man, C.  F.  Adams,  ....  686 

My  pictures  blacken  in  their  frames, Landor, 328 

Myself  I  force  some  narrowest  passage  through,    .    .    .     Trench, 605 

INIy  sister  !  my  sweet  sister  !  if  a  name, Byron, 95 

My  soul,  there  is  a  country Vaughan, 623 

INIy  soul  to-day, Bead, 456 

]\Iysterious  Night !  whep  our  first  parents  knew,   .    .    .    J5.  White, 634 

My  uncle  Philip,  hale  old  man, Stoddard, 780 

My  wind  has  turned  to  bitter  north, Clough, 131 

My  window  that  looks  down  the  west, Whitney, 637 

Nae  star  was  glintin'  out  aboon, E.  Cook, 150 

Nature,  in  zeal  for  human  amity, E.  Young, 678 

Nay,  Lord,  not  thus  !  white  lilies  in  the  spring,      .     .    .     O.  Wilde, 648 

Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow, Byron, 100 

Nay,  soul,  though  near  to  dying,  do  not  this  !     .    .    .    .    Symonds, 561 

Nay,  thank  me  not  again  for  those, Landor, 327 

Near  a  small  village  in  the  "West, Praed, 771 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, S.  F.  Adams,  ....  3 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled,    ,    .  Goldsmith,      ....  234 

Never  any  more, P.  Browning,  ....  68 

New  being  is  from  being  ceased  ; Savage, 472 

No  blank,  no  trifle,  Nature  made,  or  meant,  .....    J?.  Young, 680 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, E.  Bronte, 54 

No  ;  I  shall  pass  into  the  Morning  Land, M.  Collins,      ....  144 

No  man  e'er  found  a  happy  life  by  chance  ; E.  Yoking, 684 

None  are  unhappy  ;  all  have  cause  to  smile E.  Young, 684 

Noon,  —  and  the  northwest  sweeps  the  empty  road,  .    .    Morris, 389 

Nor  cold  nor  stern,  my  soul !  yet  I  detest, S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  710 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us  !  O  ye  —      ....    Dobell, 189 

Nor  reason,  nor  affection,  no,  nor  both,     ....,.£<,  Young,  .....  683 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  871 


No  song  of  a  soldier  riding  down, O'lJeilly, 399 

IS^o  sound  of  life  was  coming, Joyce, 834 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, Wolfe, 665 

Not  a  kiss  in  life  ;  but  one  kiss,  at  life's  end,     ....    Buntier, 808 

Not  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  choose  thee,  ....     Gilder, 232 

Nothing  but  leaves  ;  the  spirit  grieves, Akerman 8 

Nothing  resting  in  its  own  completeness, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    ,  443 

Nothing  to  wear  !  Now,  as  this  is  a  true  ditty W.  A.  Butler,     .    .    .  701 

Not  in  a  moment  drops  the  rose, E.  D.  Proctor,    .    .    .  448 

Not  made  by  worth,  nor  marred  by  flaw, Winter, 660 

No,  Tom,  you  may  banter  as  much  as  you  please  ;      .    .    Cranch, 719 

Not  profitless  the  game,  even  when  we  lose, Simms, 502 

Nought  is  there  under  heaven's  wide  hollowness,  .    .    .  E.  Spenser,     ....  526 

Now  Autumn's  fire  bums  slowly  along  the  woods,     .    .  Allingham,     ....  18 

Now  hand  ye  there,  ye're  out  o'  sight,   .    .' Bicms, 698 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come  ; E.  Spenser 524 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Banae  to  the  stars, Tennyson 578 

Now  stir  the  tire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast,     ....     Cowper, 158 

Now  summer  finds  her  perfect  prime  ! E.  D.  Proctor,    .    .    .  446 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger,  ....    Milton, 378 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Persian  throne.     Trench, 606 

Now  we're  afloat  upon  the  tropic  sea  ; Sargent, 471 

O  bairn,  when  I  am  dead, BucJmnan, 807 

O  beautiful  new  life  within  my  bosom, .    Hopkins, 829 

O  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard, Wordsworth,  ....  676 

October  turned  my  maple  leaves  to  gold  ; T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  12 

O  dark  mysterious  stream,  I  sit  by  thee, Prentice, 847 

O'er  waves  that  murmur  ever  nigh,    ........  S.  H.  Palfrey,    .    .    .  847 

O'er  wayward  childhood  would'st  thou  hold  firm  rule,  .  S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  140 

O  faint,  delicious  spring-time  violet, Story, 543 

O  fair  midspring,  besung  so  oft  and  oft, W.  Morris,     ....  390 

Of  all  the  attributes  whose  starry  rays, Preston, 435 

Of  all  the  mysteries  wherethrough  we  move,      ....    Symonds, 560 

Of  all  the  streams  that  seek  the  sea, E.  D.  Proctor,     .    .    .  447 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are, E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  60 

Of  all  the  woodland  flowers  of  earlier  spring,     ....    Hayne, 257 

Of  mortal  glory  O  soon  darkened  ray  ! Drummond,    ....  198 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, T.  Campbell 114 

Of  other  men  I  know  no  jealousy, Gilder, 233 

Often  I  have  heard  it  said, Landor, 327 

Often  the  painful  present  is  comforted, Ihipper, 620 

Oft  have  1  walked  these  woodland  paths, Latghton, 324 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night, Moore, 386 

Oft  may  the  sp'irits  of  the  dead  descend, Rogers, 464 

Oft  see  we  in  the  garish  round  of  day, Fay, 222 

O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain, Bennett, 38 

O  gift  of  God  !  O  perfect  day ; H.  W.  Longfellow, .    .  345 

O  grandly  flowing  River  ! Hay, 254 

O  God  !  if  this  indeed  be  all, A.'Bronti, 53 

O  God  !  Avhose  thoughts  are  brightest  light, Faher, 216 

O  God,  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, Chatterton,     ....  810 

Oh  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, Dickens, 187 

O  happiest  he,  whose  riper  years  retain, J.  T.  Fields,  ....  226 

O  happy  glow,  O  sun-bathed  tree, Webster, 631 

Oh,  beautiful  green  grass  !  Earth-covering  fair  I    .    .    .    Mackay 365 

Oh,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone, Bryant, 72 

Oh,  ever  skilled  to  wear  the  form  we  love, Williams, G50 

Oh,  glad  am  I  that  I  was  born  ! Spofford, 531 

Oh,  grief  that  wring'st  mine  eyes  with  tears,      ....    Hoice, 290 

Oh,  grievous  folly  !  to  heap  up  estate, Thomson, 596 

Oh  !  happiest  thou,  who  from  the  shining  height,  .    .    .    Appleton, 19 

Oh,  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store,     .    .    Beattie, 34 

O  highest,  strongest,  sweetest  woman-soul ! Gilder, 231 

Oh,  if  the  selfish  knew  how  much  they  lost, Rogers, 461 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, Faher, 216 

Oh !  leave  the  past  to  bury  its  o^vn  dead  ; Blunt, 802 

Oh,  leave  thyself  to  God  ! Burbidge, 808 

Oh,  let  me  come  to  Thee  in  this  wild  way S.  M.  B.  Piatt,  ...  421 


872  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES. 

Oh,  life,  I  breathe  thee  in  the  breeze Bryant, 76 

Oh,  listen  to  the  howling  sea, Curtis, 181 

Oh,  long  the  weary  vigils  since  you  left  me—     ....  Moulton, 845 

Oh,  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown, Wordstoorth,  ....  668 

Oh,  miserable  comfort !  Loss  is  loss, Trench, 603 

Oh!  nature's  noblest  gift  — my  gray  goose-quill,    .    .    .  Byron, 706 

Oh  !  never  did  a  mighty  truth  prevail, TcUfourd^ 562 

Oh  !  not  in  strange  portentous  way, Coolidge 814 

O  hour  of  all  hours,  the  most  blessed  upon  earth,  .    .    .  R.  B.  Lytton, ....  751 

Oh  !  say  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light,  ....  -Key, 318 

Oh,  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom  ! M.  Howitt, 294 

Oh,  the  earth  and  the  air  ! McKay, 842 

Oh,  the  green  things  growing, Craik, 170 

Oh  !  there  are  \o6&  and  tones  that  dart, Moore, 385 

Oh,  the  soul-haunting  shadows, J.  T.  Fields,  ....  226 

Oh  !  the  world  gives  little  of  love  or  light, E.  Cook, 151 

Oh,  to  be  back  in  the  cool  summer  shadow, P.  -Cary, 126 

Oh  !  watch  you  well  by  daylight, Lover j 347 

Oh!  welcome, Baillie, 27 

Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  dear, Clemmer, 129 

Oh  !  when  'tis  summer  weather, Bowles, 51 

"Oh,  where  hae  ye  been,  my  ain  Johnnie?"      ....  Ome, 846 

Oh,  who  Cabul's  sweet  region  may  behold, Michell, 371 

Oh!  who  shall  lightly  say  that  Fame, Baillie,  ......  26 

Oh  !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ?     .    .    .  Knox, 322 

Oh,  yet  we  trust  that,  somehow,  good, Tennyson, 574 

Oh  !  yield  not,  thou  sad  one,  to  sighs, Lover, 348 

O  lassie  ayont  the  hill ! Macdonald,    ....  359 

Old  friends  and  dear !  it  were  ungentle  rhyme, .    .    .    .  H,  H.  Brownell,  ...  57 

Old  house,  how  desolate  thy  life  ! Hiram  Rich,   ....  849 

Old  neighbor,  for  how  many  a  year, Spofford, 530 

O  Liberty,  thou  goddess  heavenly  bright, Addison., 3 

O  little  feet !  that  such  long  years, H.  W.  Longfellow,  .    .  342 

O  love,  come  back,  across  the  weary  way, Marston, 843 

O  Love  Divine,  that  stoopedst  to  share Holmes, 279 

O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it's  you  1  love  the  best !  .    .    .  Allingham,     ....  686 

O  loving  God  of  Nature  I Miller, 373 

"  O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, Kingstey, 321 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible, G.Eliot 209 

O  Memory  !  thou  fond  deceiver, Goldsmith,      ....  237 

O  mystic,  mighty  flower  whose  frail  white  leaves,      .    .  Barr, 798 

One  adequate  support, Wordsworth,  ....  668 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, Montgomery,  ....  383 

Once,  looking  from  a  window  on  a  land, Gilder, 233 

Once  on  a  time  the  days  of  the  Aveek, Cranch, 721 

Once  on  my  mother's  breast,  a  child,  I  crept,     ....  Howells, 292 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, Poe, 425 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  440 

One  more  unfortunate, Hood, 282 

One  reads  to  me  Macaulay's  "  Lays," Gustafson, .    .    .'  .    .  245 

One  simamer  day,  when  birds  flew  high, M.  M.  Dodge,      .    .    .  192 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought, P.  Cary, 123 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned, Shelley, 490 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, Campbell, 112 

Only  a  little  child, Hageman, 247 

Only  a  tender  little  thing, Spofford, 531 

Only  waithig  till  the  shadows, Mace, 360 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell,      ....  Willis^ 653 

On  the  eighth  day  of  March  it  was,  some  people  say,     .  Lover, 746 

On  the  Rialto  Bridge  we  stand  ; Howells, 292 

On  the  Bighi  Kulm  we  stood, Holland, 275 

On  the  Sabbath-day, A.  Smith, 504 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake  ! Percival, 413 

On  what  foundations  stands  the  warrior's  pride,    .    .    .  S.  Johnson,     ....  308 

Open  the  gates  of  the  Temple  ; Mace, 360 

O  pilgrim,  comes  the  night  so  fast? Thaxter,     .....  588 

O  popular  applause  !  what  heart  of  man, Cowper, 157 

O  reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see, R.  Southey,     ....  618 

0  Science,  whose  footsteps  wander, Fawcettt     .    •    »   e    •  218 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  873 

O  sleep  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  138 

O  sovereign  Master  !  stem  and  splendid  power,     .    .    .     Thaxter, 690 

O  still,  white  face  of  perfect  peace, D.  R.  Goodale^   ...  237 

O  tenderly  the  haughty  day, , Emerson. 213 

O  the  generations  old, J.  G.  Wkittier,   ...  645 

O  the  splendor  of  the  city, E.  D.  Proctor,     .    .    .  449 

O  Thou,  by  Nature  taught, W.  Collins 144 

O  Thou,  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons  of  men Parker 406 

O  Thou,  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear  !     ......    Moore, 386 

O  Time  !  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay, Bowles,  ......  51 

O  treacherous  conscience  !  while  she  seems  to  sleep,     .    E.  Young, 678 

O  trifling  tasks  so  often  done, Allen, 17 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting, Wordsworth 670 

Our  Fatherland  !  and  would'st  thou  know, Lover, 748 

Our  funeral  tears  from  dillereut  causes  rise, E.  Young, 682 

Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below, Goldsmith,      ....  237 

Our  life  is  nothing  but  a  winter's  day  ; •     Quarles, 451 

Our  life  is  twofold  !    Sleep  hath  its  own  world,      .    .    .  Byron,    ......  97 

Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls p.  Gary, 127 

Our  old  colonial  town  is  new  with  May  : Abbey, 2 

Our  revels  now  are  ended  ;  these  our  actors,      ....  Shakespeare,  ....  487 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass, K.  P.  Osgood,     ...  403 

Out  of  the  deeps  of  heaven, Stoddard, 642 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, Ticknor, 854 

Out  of  the  thousand  verses  you  have  writ T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  12 

Outside  the  mad  sea  ravens  for  its  pray  — MoulUm, 845 

Out  upon  it !  I  have  loved, Suckling,    .    .    .    o    .  550 

Over  my  window  the  ivy  climbs, M.  M.  Dodge,      .    .    .  191 

O  weathercock  on  the  village  spire, H.  W.  Longfellow, .    .  343 

O  winter,  wilt  thou  never,  never  go  ? D.  Gray, 822 

O  world, E.B.  Brotoning,     .    .  67 

O  ye  tears  !  O  ye  tears !  that  have  long  refused  to  flow,    Mackay 364 

O  ye  uncrowned  but  kingly  kings, Aiken, 797 

O  youth  of  the  world, A.  Fields, 225 


Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, Hey  wood 288 

Paddy  McCabe  was  dying  one  day Lover 748 

Pain  and  pleasure  both  decay, Stoddard, 542 

Pain  is  no  longer  pain  when  it  is  past, Preston, 435 

Pardon  the  faults  in  me, C.  G.  Rossetti,     ...  466 

Passionate,  stormy  ocean, Hopkins, 828 

Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods, Raleigh, 452 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us, F.  S.  Osgood,     ...  402 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, Tennyson, 575 

Persia  !  time-honored  land  !  who  looks  on  thee,     .    .    .  Michell, 370 

Pleasures  lie  thickest  where  no  pleasures  seem  :    .    .    .  Blanchard 801 

Poet,  whose  sunny  span  of  fruitful  years, Bunner. 807 

Poor  lone  Hannah Larcom, 329 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, Shakespeare,  .        .    .  489 

Poor,  withered  face,  that  yet  was  once  so  fair,  ....(?.  P.  Lathrop,        .    .  336 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire, Montgomery,  .         .    .  383 

"Pray,  what  do  they  do  at  the  Springs?"  .    .....  Saxe, 77S 

Press  on  !  there's  no  such  word  as  fail ! Benjamin, 799 

Princes  !  and  you  most  valorous,         Dooson, »  190 

Proud  mountain  giant,  whose  majestic  face, Boker, 43 

Prune  thou  thy  words,  the  thoughts  control Newman 396 

Purple,  the  passionate  color,      .    .    .    • F.  Smith, 508 

Quaint  blossoms  with  the  old  fantastic  name,    ....  Jackson, 833 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, Jonson, 313 

Bat-tat  it  went  upon  the  lion's  chin,       Hood, 738 

Rattle  the  window,  winds, Stoddard,  .    .    .    .    r  541 

Red  leaf,  gold  leaf, Hutchinson.    ...  830 

Remember  Him,  the  only  One, Lazarus, 338 

Remember  me  when  I  am  goiie  away, C.  G.  Rossetti,     .    .    .'  d65 

"fiepinenotjO  my  son!"  the  old  man  replied,     o    .    .  R.  Southey,     .    .    .    ,  TilP 


8T4-  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES. 

Restless  forms  of  living  light, ff.  Coleridge,  ....  133 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, Tennyson, 676 

Rivers  that  roll  most  musical  in  song, Parsons, 408 

Sacred  and  secret  hand  ! Vaughan, 623 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, A.  T.  De  Vere.    .    .    .  186 

Sad  is  the  thought  of  sunniest  days, ifap, 263 

Saint  Augustine  !  well  hast  thou  said, H.  W.  Longfellow, .    .  341 

Sauntering  hither  on  listless  wings, Bret  Harte,     ....  252 

Say  over  again  and  yet  once  over  again, E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  64 

Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and  honored  most,  .    .    .    Pope, 768 

Say  why  was  man  so  eminently  raised, Akenside, 7 

Say,  ye  opprest  by  some  fantastic  Avoes, Crabbe, 165 

Scarce  had  the  earliest  ray  from  Chinon's  tOAvers,      .    .    Ji.  Southey 617 

Scorn  not  the  sonnet.  Critic,  you  have  frowned,     .    .    .  Wordsioorth,  ....  675 

Sea-king's  daughter  from  over  the  sea,  .......     Tennyson, 582 

Seated  one  day  at  the  organ, A.  A.  Procter,     .    .    .  441 

See  how  the  orient  dew, Marvell, 367 

Seek  not  to  walk  by  borrowed  light, A.  Gary, 121 

See  you  yonder  castle  stately  ? A.  B.  Bensel,  .    .    .    .  800 

Send  down  Thy  Avinged  angel,  God  ! B.  W.  Procter,    .    .    .  445 

September  Avaves  his  golden-rod, •    •    •  Hutchinson,    ....  830 

Serve  God  and  be  cheerful.  The  motto, Newell, 395 

Seven  Avomen  loved  him.  When  the  Avrinkled  pall,     .    .     Sfedman, 535 

She  did  not  sigh  for  death,  nor  make  sad  moan,     .    .    .    Boyle, 805 

She  dAvelt  among  the  untrodden  Avays, Wordsworth 672 

She  had  lost  many  children  now, Landon, 326 

"  She  is  dead  !  "  they  said  to  him, E.  Arnold, 20 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  vieAV, H.  Coleriage 134 

She  is  the  east  just  ready  for  the  sun, Bedden, 848 

She  might  have  knoAvn  it  in  the  earlier  spring,  ....    Bunner, 808 

She's  empty  :  hark  !  she  sounds  :  there's  nothing  there,     Quarles, 450 

She's  gone  to  dwell  in  heaven,  my  lassie,  ......  Cunningham, ....  180 

She  sitteth  there  a  mourner, M.  M.  Dodge,      ...  191 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night, Byron, 93 

She  Avas  a  phantom  of  delight, Wordsioorth,  ....  674 

She  Avas  not  Avhite  nor  broAvn E.  B.  Browning.      .    .  67 

Shut  in  a  close  and  dreary  sleep, S.  M.  B.  Piatt,   .    .    .  420 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John  ! Pope, 765 

Since'fell  that  is  not  heaven  must  fade, Keble, 316 

Since  there  is  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  part, .    .    .    Drayton, 198 

Side  by  side  rise  the  two  great  cities, Hageman, 247 

Sing  again  the  song  you  sung Curtis, 181 

Singing  through  the  forests, Saxe, 779 

Sing,  poet,  'tis  a  merry  Avorld, A.  Smith, 505 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine  !       Ley  den, 339 

Slayer  of  Avinter,  art  thou  here  again  ? Morris 389 

Sleepj  babe,  the  honeyed  sleep  of  innocence  !     .    .    .    .    Holland, 274 

Sleeping,  I  dreamed  that  thou  Avast  mine, Stedman, 536 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed, King, 836 

Sleep,  sleep"  to-day,  tormenting  cares, Barbauld, 798 

Sleep  SAveetly  in  your  humble  graves, Timrod, 855 

Slowly  I  circle  the  dim,  dizzy  stair, K.  L.  Bates,    ....  32 

SloAvly  thy  floAving  tide, P.  Southey,    ....  522 

Slow  toiling  upAvard  from  the  misty  vale, Holmes, 278 

Small  Avas  thy  share  of  all  this  world's  delight, ....    Bunner, 808 

Smiles  on  past  Misfortune's  broAV, T.  Gray 243 

So  close  Ave  are,  and  yet  so  far  apart, Marston, 843 

So  fair  the  sun  rose  yestermorn Coolbrith, 154 

Soft,  brown,  smiling  eyes Cranch, 176 

Softly  Avoo  away  her  breath, B.  W.  Procter,    .    .    .  446 

Soft  on  the  sunset  sky, E.  Goodale,     ....  237 

So  here  hath  been  dawning  another  blue  day  !  .    .    .    .     Carlyle, 118 

Soldier,  statesman,  scholar,  friend, Bolton, 805 

Solitude  !  Life  is  inviolate  solitude  ; A.  Gary, 119 

So  love  is  dead  that  has  been  quick  so  long  ! Moiclton, 816 

Some  are  laughing,  some  are  Aveeping  ; C.  G.  Bossetti,     .    .    .  465 

Some  day  ;  some  day  of  days,  threading  the  streets,  .    .  Perry,     ......  416 

Some  fairy  spirit  with  his  Avaud, G.  P.  Lathrop,    ,    .    ,  334 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  876 

Some  feelings  are  to  mortals  given Scott, 478 

Some  flowers  are  withered,  and  some  joys  have  died  ;    .  Jackson, 831 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every  touch, Cowper, 716 

Some  great  misfortune  to  portend, Swiff, 781 

Soma  men  employ  their  health,  an  ugly  trick,  ....  Cotcper 715 

Some  sigh  for  this  and  that, ifowZ, 738 

Something  so  human  hearted, Ticknor, 8M 

Sometime,  when  all  life's  lessons  have  been  learned,     .  M.  li.  Smith,  ....  513 

Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet, Timrod, 855 

Somewhere  — somewhere  a  happy  clime  there  is,  .    .    .  Saxe 474 

Somewhere  'tis  told  that  in  an  Eastern  land,     ....  Mace, 361 

So  prone  our  hearts  to  whisper  what  we  wisn,  .    .    .    .  E.  Young, 679 

Soul  of  ray  soul  impart, Sargent, 469 

Sound  asleep  !  no  sigh  can  reach, Prescott, 434 

Speak  tenderly  !    "  For  he  is  dead,"  we  say, M.M.Dodge,     ...  191 

Spinner  of  the  silken  snare, Cormoell, 815 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou,      .    .    .  Bryant, 76 

Stand,  thou  great  bulwark  of  man's  liberty  !      .    .    .    .  Baker, 46 

Stand  up,  erect !    Thou  hast  the  form, Gallagher, 820 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest, H.  W.  Longfelloio, .    .  342 

Stay  wherever  you  will, Dobell, 189 

Stay  yet  a  little  longer  in  the  sky, A.  Cary, 121 

Still  1  behold  him,  every  thought  employed, Crabbe, 1G6 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, J.  G.  Whittier,   .    .    .  640 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, Jonson 310 

Stoop  to  my  window,  thou  beautiful  dove  ! Willis, 650 

Strive  not  to  say  the  whole  !  the  poet  in  his  art,    .    .    .  Story, 543 

Strive  :  yet  I  do  not  promise, J.  A.  Procter,     .   :    .  443 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, Tennyson, 574 

Sum  up  at  night,  wliat  thou  hast  done  by  day ;  .    .    .    .  Herbert,      .    .    .    .    :  264 

Sun  of  the  moral  world  !  etlulgent  source, Barloio, 29 

Sun  of  the  sleepless  !  melancholy  star  ! Byron, 92 

Sunshine  and  silence  on  the  Col  de  Balm  ! Havergal, 826 

Suppose  the  dreaded  messenger  of  death, Jennison, 832 

Supreme,  all-wise,  eternal  Potentate  ! Prior, 439 

Supreme  among  a  race  of  gods  he  stands, }V.  W.  Gay,   ....  820 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  Tow, Tennyson,  .    .    .    ,    .  578 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, Herbert, 265 

Sweeter  than  voices  in  the  scented  hay, Bourdilton,     ,    .    .^.  51 

Sweetest,  sweetest  Heliotrope  ! Kimba'l ~  319 

Sweet  falsehoods,  fare  ye  well ! //.//.  Brownell, ...  58 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies, Barbauld, 28 

Sweet  sylvan  lake,  in  memory's  gold, Street, 547 

Sweet  winter  roses,  stainless  as  the  snow, Laighton,  ^    .    .    .    .  324 

Take  the  dead  Christ  to  my  chamber Hoioe, 291 

Taste  the  sweetness  of  delaying, Bushnell, 86 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, Herbert, 827 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean,  ....  Tennyson,  .....  577 

Tears  wash  away  the  atoms  in  the  eye Cranch, 174 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind Lovtlace, 346 

Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light, Shelley 492 

Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds. Mackay, 366 

Tell  the  fainting  soul  in  the  weary  form, Barker, 29 

Tender-handed  stroke  a  nettle, Hill, 827 

That  precious,  priceless  gift,  a  soul Symonds, 558 

That  season  which  all  other  men  regret, Stmms, 503 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow M.  Arnold,      ....  25 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined, Waller, 628 

The  age  is  gone  o'er, R.  B.  Lytton, ....  752 

The  angels  come,  the  angels  go. J.J.  Piatt,      ....  418 

The  angels  kiss  her  while  she  sleeps, A.  T.  De  Vere,     ...  185 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, Winter, 659 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, Shelley, 495 

The  banker,  well  known li.  B.  Lytton,  ....  753 

The  baril  has  sung,  God  never  formed  a  soul,     ....  Brooks. 56 

The  beaet  was  sturdy,  large,  and  tall,     ...*,.,  S.  Butler, 700 

The  beautiful  color  —  the  color  of  gold  !     .    .    \   \  \   '.  F.  Smith, 508 

The  bird,  let  loose  in  eastern  skies,    .    .    .  -i '^^  S"i''- .  Moore, 386 


876  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES. 


The  birds  are  mute,  the  bloom  is  fled, Sarqent, 478 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out, D.  O.  Rossetti,    ...  467 

The  blessings  which  the  weak  and  poor  can  scatter,  .    .  Talfourd, 562 

The  blind  at  an  easel,  the  palsied  with  a  graver,    .    .    .  Tapper, 614 

The  branches  arch  and  shape  a  pleasant  bower,     .    .    .  Street, 549 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high, Hemans, 263 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I  come  by,      .    .    .  Very, 627 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels, Byron, 104 

The  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate,  .    .    .  E.  Young, 680 

The  chrysalid  with  rapture  stirs  ; Hopkins 828 

The  circle  formed,  we  sit  in  silent  state, Cowper, 715 

The  conference-meeting  through  at  last, SteSnan, 537 

The  crimson  sunset  faded  into  gray, Thaxter, 586 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, T.  Gray, 240 

The  curtain  of  the  dark, Larcom, 330 

The  day  and  night  are  symbols  of  creation, J.  B.  O'lieilly,    .    .    .  399 

The  day  is  quenched,  and  the  sun  is  fled, Holland, 271 

The  dead  leaves,  their  rich  mosaics, ^.  Longfelloio,    .    .    .  346 

The  doors  are  all  wide  open  ;  at  the  gate, H.  W.  Longfellow,  .    ,  344 

The  dove  did  lend  me  wings, Blunt, 803 

The  eagle  nestles  near  the  sun  ! J.J.  Piatt, 419 

The  emphatic  speaker  dearly  loves  to  oppose,    ....  Cou'per, 715 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew S.  T.  Coleridge, .    .    .  135 

The  fateful  hour,  when  death  stood  by, B.  Taylor, 564 

The  fisherman  wades  in  the  surges  ; B.  Taylor, 566 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, Shelley 490 

The  fresh  May  morning's  earliest  light, Street,     ......  545 

The  frugal  snail  with  forecast  of  repose, Lamb, 325 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove,    .    .    .    .  C.  Smith, 507 

The  g?ories  of  our  birth  and  state, Shirley, 498 

The  grave  but  ends  the  struggle  ! Simms, 504 

The  hand  that  wore  thee  smooth  is  cold, Bloomjield,     ....  42 

The  harp  at  Nature's  advent,  strung, J.  G.  Whittier,   .    .    .  645 

The  heart,  they  say,  is  wiser  than  the  schools  !  .    .    .    .  Bogers, 461 

The  honey-bee  that  wanders  all  day  long, Eotta 50 

The  hours  on  the  old  piazza, Story, 543 

The  human  heart  cannot  sustain, Sir  Henry  Taylor, .    ,  571 

Their  preciousness  in  absence  is  proved. Tupper, 615 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  ! Byron, 98 

The  kftdly  words  that  rise  within  the  heart,      .    .    .    .  J.  B.  O'lieilly,    .    .    .  401 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last Lowell, 351 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, D.  G.  Rossetti,    ...  468 

The  loving  poor  !  — So  envy  calls E.Elliott, 211 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash, Bead 456 

The  matron  at  her  mirror, Bayly. 33 

The  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close  ; H.  Coleridge,  ....  134 

The  midges  dance  aboon  tlie  burn  ;    .     . Tannahill,      ....  563 

The  more  W3  live,  more  brief  appear, Campbell, 114 

The  Moth'3  kiss,  first ! B.  Broicning,  ....  70 

Then  before  all  they  stand,  —  the  holy  vow, Bogers, 462 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, Bums, 85 

Then,  lo  !  the  sainted  Monitor  is  born, Crabbe, 717 

The  night-wind  sweeps  its  viewless  lyre, Faiccett, 220 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, Bourdillon,     ....  60 

The  palace  with  its  splendid  dome G.  Houghton,  ....  285 

The  pilgrim  and  stranger,  who,  through  the  day,  .    .    .  E.  H.  Whittier,  .    .     .  639 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  —  where  are  they  ? Pierpont, 422 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, J.  G.  Whittier,    ...  646 

The  place  seemed  new  and  strange  as  death,     .    .    .    .  E.  B.  Browning,      .    .  66 

The  place  where  soon  I  think  to  lie, Landor, 328 

The  pleasant  grounds  are  greenly  turfed  and  graded  ;   .  Trowbridge,    ....  610 

The  poets  pour  wine  ;  and  when  'tis  new.  all  decry  it ;  .  B.  B.  Lytton,  ....  735 

The  poplars  are  felled  ;  farewell  to  the  shade,  ....  Cowper, 157 

The  purple  grapes  hang  ready  for  the  kiss, T.  a.  Collier 143 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained, Shakespeare,  ....  486 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room,    .......  T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  11 

The  rain  is  o'er.    How  dense  and  bright, A.  Norton, 396 

The  rain,  the  desolate  rain  ! Hayne 257 

The  rapid  years  drag  by,  and  bring  not  here,     ....  Mann, 842 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  877 

There  are  a  number  of  us  creep, Watts .  855 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses Stoddard, MO 

There  came  a  breath,  out  of  a  distant  time Jennison. 832 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin,   ....    Campbell, 112 

There  is  a  beauty  of  the  reason. Ttipper, 616 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, Montgomery,  ....  382 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, Watts, 856 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods Byron, 100 

There  is  a  room,  a  stately  room, H.  R.  Dorr,     ....  818 

There  is  but  one  thing  that  still  harks  me  back,    .    .    .  Sir  H.  Taylor,    .    ,    .  670 

There  is  May  in  books  forever  : Hunt, 301 

There  is  no  comfort  underneath  the  sun, Blunt, 803 

There  is  no  day  so  dark, Thaxter, 686 

"There  is  no  God,"  the  foolish  saith E.  B.Browning,      ,    .  65 

There  is  no  laughter  in  the  natural  world, Blunt, 803 

There  is  no  remedy  for  time  misspent ; Sir  A.  De  Vere,  .    .    .  184 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  ; Gilder, 231 

There'll  come  a  day  when  the  supremest  splendor,    .    .    Preston, 436 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, Mackay, 363 

There's  a  story  that's  old, C.  F.  Adam^, ....  685 

There's  never  an  always  cloudless  sky, .    Savage, 473 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover,    ....    Ingelow, 301 

There  was  a  little,  very  little, Mackay, 758 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, Byron, 106 

There  was  a  time  when  death  and  1, Bradley, 52 

There  was  once  a  gentle  time, Croly, 178 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City, Thackeray,     ....  783 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lauds, Lowell, 348 

The  robin  sings  in  the  elm  ; Hoioells, 292 

The  roof  of  thickest  covert, Milton, 380 

The  room  is  swept  and  garnished  for  thy  sake Kimball, 320 

The  school's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses  gray, .    .    Rogers, 464 

The  sea  goes  up,  tlie  sky  comes  down, G.  P.  Lathrop,   .    .    .  33d 

The  sea  is  flecked  with  bars  of  gray, O.  Wilde 648 

Tlie  seas  are  quiet,  when  the  wmds  give  o'er,     ....     Waller, 628 

The  sea  !  the  sea !  the  open  sea  ! B.  W.  Procter^    .    .    .  444 

The  self  of  so  long  ago, Trowbridge,    ....  607 

These  words  the  poet  heard  in  Paradise, H.  W.  Longfellow, .    .  837 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, Willis, 653 

The  skies  are  blue  above  my  head, Hay, 253 

The  sky  is  laced  with  fitful  red, O.  Wilde 648 

The  silver  trumpets  rang  across  the  dome  ; O.  Wilde, 647 

The  soul  hath  its  feelers,  cobwebs  floating  on  the  wind,     Tupper 615 

The  speckled  sky  is  dim  with  snow, Trowbridge,   ....  608 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls, Tennyson,  .....  577 

The  storm- wind  moans  through  branches  bare.;     .    .    .    Collier, 142 

The  summer  coaxed  me  to  be  glad, Annan, 797 

The  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue, Scott, 476 

The  summer  day  is  closed  —  the  sun  is  set : Bryant, 80 

The  summer-tide  swells  high  and  full ;.    ......    Hopkins^ 829 

The  suu  has  gone  down  o'er  the  lofty  JBeulomond,.    .    .  Tannahill,      ....  563 

The  sun  has  kissed  the  violet  sea, Lanier, 329 

The  sun  of  life  has  crossed  the  line  ; Whitney, 636 

The  sun's  bright  orb,  declining  all  serene, Falconer, 218 

The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill, Scott, 480 

The  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year  round, Stedman 538 

The  sweets  of  converse  and  society, Sir  H.  Taylor,    .    .    .  571 

The  Thames  nocturne  of  blue  and  gold O.  Wilde, 648 

The  tide  slips  up  the  silver  sand, Hutchinson,    ....  830 

The  time  of  gifts  has  come  again, J.  G.  Whittier,   .    .    .  646 

The  Temple  of  the  Lord  stood  open  wide, Tilton, ^ .  601 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  founa,  .........     Thrale, ' .  784 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past, Cowper, 162 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, Wetby, 8?6 

The  unlettered  Christian,  who  believes  in  gross,    .    .    .  Dryden, ......  205 

The  violet  in  her  greenwood  bower Scott, 481 

The  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank, ,    ,    .    ,    B.  Taylor, 565 

The  weakness  of  accident  is  strong,   ........     Tupper 677 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day, Scott ^ <,    .  477 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINUS. 


The  white  reflection  of  the  sloop's  great  sail,     ....  Thaxter,     .....  587 

The  winds  behind  me  in  the  thicket  sigh, Symonds,   .....  559 

The  winds  that  once  the  Ai-go  bore,    .    .         .....£.  Z).  Proctor,     ...  448 

The  wisest  of  the  wise,   .    .    .    o Landor, 743 

The  woman  was  old  and  ragged  and  gray, Brine, 806 

The  Avorks  my  calling  doth  propose, Winter, 662 

The  world  goes  up  and  the  Avorld  goes  down Kingsley, 321 

The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornament, Shakespeare,  ....  485 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon,  ....  Wordsworth,  .    ...  615 

The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to  part,   ••....  Goldsmith,      ....  23? 

The  Yankee  boy,  before  he's  sent  to  scliool, Pierpont, 764 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, Vaughan, 621 

They  come  !  the  merry  summer  months  of  beauty,  song, 

and  flowers, Mothenvell,    ....  394 

The  years  have  linings  just  as  goblets  do  : C.  F.  Bates,    ....  31 

They  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair,     .....    Perry, 414 

They  seemed  to  those  who  saw  them  meet, Lord  Houghton,  .    .    .  2^:8 

They  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die, Ji.  Soutliey 517 

They  told  me  in  my  earlier  years, E.  Cook, 150 

They  Avait  all  day  unseen  by  us,  nnfelt ; M.  M.  Dodge, ....  192 

They  Avhose  hearts  are  Avhole  and  strong Larcom 333 

Think  not  some  knowledge  rests  with  thee  alone, .    .    .  Wheeler,     .....  633 

.Think  not  your  duty  done  when,  sad  and  tearful,  .    .    .  Bichardsmi,    ....  458 

This  child,  so  lovely  and  cherub-like, liogers, 461 

This  circulating  principle  of  life, Sir  H.  Taylor,    .    .    .  670 

This  is  Goethe,  with  a  forehead, W.  A.  BrUler,      ...  88 

This  is  that  hill  of  awe, Bret  Harte,     ....  252 

This  is  where  the  roses  grew, Allen, 15 

This  man  whose  homely  face  you  look  upon, Stoddard, 540 

This  name  of  mine  the  smi  may  steal  away, G.  Houghton,  ....  285 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie, Cowley, 155 

This  sweet  child  that  hath  climbed  upon  my  knee,    .    .    Real/, 457 

This  tempest  sweeps  the  Atlantic  !  —  Nevasink,      .    .    .    Simms, 503 

Those  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells  ! Moore, 387 

Those  we  love  truly  never  die, J.  B.  O'JReilly,    .    .    .  400 

"Thou  and  1!" Tilton, 599 

Thou  art  not  dead  ;  thou  art  not  gone  to  dust ; .    .    .    .    B.  Tai/lor, 567 

Thou  art,  O  God  !  the  life  and  light, Moore, 387 

Thou  art  Avith  me,  here,  upon  the  banks, -  Wordsicorth,  ....  667 

Thou,  BaA'aria's  brown-eyed  daughter, B.  Taylor, 569 

Thou  blossom  bright  Avith  Autumn  dew, Bryant, 77 

Thou  dear,  misunderstood,  maligned  Delay, Saxton, 852 

Thou  flrst,  best  friend  that  heaven  assigns  below, .    .    .    Rogers, 463 

Though  absent  long, Wordsioorth,  ....  666 

Though  Reason  through  Faith's  mysteries  see,  ....     Cowley, 156 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, Crunch, 175 

Though  wronged,  not  harsh  my  ansAver  ! Simms,   ......  503 

Though  you  should  come  again  to-morrow, S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  710 

Thou  goest :  to  Avhat  distant  place, Symonds, 559 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf  ! Ho(xI, 734 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie, Cunningham,.    .    .    .  179 

Thou  knoAvest,  O  my  Father  !  Why  should  I,     .    .    .    .  J.  C.  R.  Dorr,      ...  195 

Thou  ling'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray, Bums 82 

Thou  lone  companion  of  the  spectred  night, Wolcot, 664 

Thou  mightier  than  Manoah's  son, Tupper, 616 

Thou  Shalt  have  sun  and  shoAver  from  heaven  above,     .    Stedman, 539 

Tliou  unrelenting  Past ! Bryant, 73 

Thou  Avhose  birth  on  earth, Swinburne^     ....  556 

Three  fishers  Avent  sailing  away  to  the  West,      ....    Kingsley, 321 

Three,  only  three,  my  darling, Holme, 276 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages  born, .    Dryden, 204 

Three  roses,  Avan  as  moonlight  and  Aveighed  doAvn,     .    .  T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  10 

Tliree  Aveeks  to^ay  had  old  Doctor  DroUhead,  ....    Anonymous 796 

Qlirough  her  forced,  abnormal  quiet Halpine, 726 

Through  love  to  light !  Oh,  Avondex'ful  the  way,     .    .    .     Gilder, 233 

Through  the  dark  path,  o'er  Avhich  I  tread Boker, 804 

Thus  doth  beauty  dAvell, Akenside, 7 

Thus  is  it  over  all  the  earth  ! Holland, 273 

Thv  bright  brief  day  knew  no  decline—    .«,.,.    MoiVf 381 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  879 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright, Blake, 39 

IHll  the  slow  thiylight  pale, Gr,.'enu'cll 823 

Time,  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his  back, Shakespeare,.    ...  486 

Time,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides  his  wings,  .    .    .    .  E.  Young, 678 

Tincture  or  syrup,  lotion,  drop,  or  pill, Crabbe, 718 

Tired  of  play  !  tired  of  play  ! JVillis, 651 

'Tis  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time, Eastman 207 

'Tis  all  a  great  show, Very, 627 

'Tis  a  story  told  by  Kalidasa,  — Bosticick, 49 

'Tis  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours  ;    ....  A'.  Young, 680 

'Tis  not  stringing  rhymes  together, Harergal 826 

'Tis  said  that  when  tlie  nightingale, ftohertsov, 851 

'Tis  self  whereby  we  suiter, Synumds, 560 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis  sweet, S.  T.  Coleridge,  ...  136 

'Tis  the  part  of  a  coward  to  brood, Hayne, 827 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, Byron, 107 

Titan  !  to  whose  immortal  eyes, Byron, 91 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question, — Siiakespeare,  .    ,    .    .  484 

To-day  the  sunshine  freely  showers, Prescott, 433 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds, Bryant, 74 

Toiling  across  the  Mer  de  Glace, T.  B.  Aldrich,     ...  11 

Toil  on  !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train, Sigonmey 500 

Too  late  1  stayed  — forgive  the  crime —      ......  Sj.encer, 524 

To  learning's  second  seats  we  now  proceed, Crabbe, 164 

Toll,  tower  and  minster,  toll, B.  H.  Brownell,      .    .  67 

To  Love  in  my  heart,  I  exclaimed,  tV.ther  morning,  .    ,  Campbell, 707 

To  miry  places  me  the  hunters  drive, Trench, 605 

To-morrow  has  trouble  to  lend Kimball 319 

To  Thee,  fair  Freedom,  I  retire, Shenstonc, 498 

Touch  us  gently.  Time, B.  W.  Procter,   .    .    .  444 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  none  other  wight, Chaucer, 812 

Tread  lightly,  she  is  near, .    .    .    • O.  Wilde, 648 

Tread  softly  !  bow  the  head— C.  B.  Southey,    ...  514 

Triumphal  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky, Campbell, 113 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed, Pope, 432 

'T  was  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won,    „ Dry  den, 199 

'Twas  August,  and  the  tierce  sun  overhead, M.  Arnold,      ....  24 

'Twas  in  June's  bright  and  glowing  prime, Street 545 

'Twas  May  !  the  spring  with  magic  bloom, Street, 546 

'Twas  the  last  fight  at  Fredericksburg,  — Gassaway, 229 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death,     .    .    .    .    .  H.  W.  Longfellow,      .  344 

Two  children,  in  two  neighbor  villages Tennyson, 585 

Two  hands  upon  the  breast, Craik 170 

Two  honest  tradesmen  meeting  in  the  Strand,  ....  Byrom, 704 

Two  maidens  listening  to  the  sea — If  ebster, 631 

Two  things  love  can  do, Phelps, 417 

Two  travellers  of  conceited  cast, Merrick, 759 

Tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, Perry, 415 

Under  the  coffin-lid  there  are  roses  : S.  M.  B.  Piatt,  ...  421 

Under  the  lindens  lately  sat Landor, 743 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers  bum, ....  Campbell, 117 

Unfathomable  Sea  !  whose  waves  are  years, Shelley, 492 

Unlike  those  feeble  gales  of  praise, Moore, 760 

Unusual  darkness  broods ;  and  growing,  gains,      .    .    .  Thomson, 591 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, J.  G.  Whittier,    .    .    .  642 

Up  from  the  south  at  break  of  day, Bead, 463 

Upon  the  sadness  of  the  sea, Thaxter, 587 

Upon  the  white  sea  sand, Brown, 56 

Venomous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp  and  keen,    ....  Wyatt, 677 

Verily  the  fancy  may  be  false, Tapper, G16 

Verse,  a  breeze,  mid  blossoms  straying, S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  140 

Victoria's  sceptre  o'er  the  deep, Campbell, 115 

Virtue,  forever  frail,  as  fair,  below E.  Young, G7S 

Virtue !  without  thee, Thomson, 694 

Wall,  no!  I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, Hay, 731 

Wanton  droll,  whose  harmless  play,  ........  Baulie, 26 


880  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES, 

Want  passed  for  merit  at  her  open  door  : Dry  den, 206 

Was  this  the  singer  1  had  heard  so  long? Cranch, 173 

Waters  above  !  eternal  springs  ! Vaughan, 624 

We  are  all  here  ! Spramie 533 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight  moon  ;      ...  Shelley, 495 

We  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep  ; B.  W.  Procter,    .    .    .  444 

We  are  ever  waiting,  waiting, C.D.W.  Brovmell,     .  60 

We  are  face  to  face,  and  between  us  here, P.  Cary, 123 

We  are  living — we  are  dwelling, Coxe, 816 

We  are  not  always  equal  to  our  fate, Simms 502 

We  are  the  sweet  flowers, Hunt, 299 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I,  .......    .  Troiobridge,    ....  786 

We  are  wrong  always,  when  we  think  too  much,    .    .    .  E.  B.  Browning,     .    .  66 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking, Arnold, 25 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest, Holmes, 276 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, Bums, 83 

Weep  not  for  me  ;  — Newman, 396 

We  have  been  friends  together, Norton, 398 

Wg  indeed  have  heard, Crabbe, 163 

Welcome,  silence  !  welcome!  peace  ! Bloomfield,     ....  42 

We  light  on  fruits  and  flowers,  and  purest  things  :     .    .  Trench, 605 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years  ;  in  thoughts,  not  breath  ;  .  P.J.  Bailey,   ....  26 

We  live  not  in  our  moments  or  our  years, Trench, 605 

Well,  I  confess,  I  did  not  guess, Hood, 737 

Well  might  red  shame  my  cheek  consume  I Trowbridge,    ....  612 

We  may  not  choose  ! Jackson, 830 

We  merry  three,     .    •    .    .    • Mackay, 756 

We  must  have  doves  and  serpents  in  our  heart  1    .    .    .  Quarles, 451 

We're  all  alone,  we're  all  alone  ! Spofford, 530 

Were  I  at  Petra,  could  I  not  declare,      .......  Tupper, 619 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte, Thackeray,     ....  783 

We  sat  by  the  cheerless  fireside, Stoddard, 542 

We  should  fill  the  hours  with  the  sweetest  things,     .    .  Dickinson, 188 

We  that  were  friends,  yet  are  not  now, Lord  Houghton, .    ,    .  288 

We  two  have  grown  up  so  divinely  together, Trowbridge,    ....  613 

We  walk  alone  through  all  life's  various  ways, .    .    ,    .  E.  Gray, 240 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night,  ....  Hood, 281 

We  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood, Hoffman, 270 

\Miat  ails  this  heart  o'  mine  ? Blamire, 40 

What !  and  not  one  to  heave  the  pious  sigh  ? B.  Soutney,     ....  519 

What  a  time  since  I  wrote  !  —  I'm  a  sad,  naughty  girl,  .  Moore, 760 

What  could  they  be  but  happy  ?  balanced  so B.  Browning, ....  71 

What  frightens  you  thus,  my  good  son  ? M.  Prior, 774 

What  heartache, —ne'er  a  hill! Lanier 328 

What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust  to  tread, Pope, 430 

What  is  hope  ?  A  smiling  rainbow, Carlyle, .    .....  119 

What  is  it  that  doth  spoil  the  fair  adorning, A.  Cary 122 

What  is  the  dearest  happiness  of  heaven  ? CooHdge, 813 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? Holland, 272 

What  lies  beyond  the  fair  horizon's  rim  ?......  Jennison, 833 

What  love  do  I  bring  you? Spofford, 531 

What  makes  a  hero  ?  not  success,  not  fame, Sir  H.  Taylor,    .    .    .  571 

What  man  can  hear  sweet  sounds  and  dread  to  die  ?     .  A.  T.  De  Vet^e,    .    .    .  186 

What  man  is  he  that  boasts  of  fleshly  might,     .    .    .    .  E.  Spenser,     ....  528 

What  memory  fired  her  pallid  face, Spofford, 529 

"  What  need  has  the  singer  to  sing  ?  " J.  C.  R.  Dorr,      .    .    .  194 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours, Kemble, 317 

"  What  shall  I  sing  ?  "  I  sighed,  and  said, J.J.Piatt,      ....  418 

What's  hallowed  ground  ?  Has  earth  a  clod, Campbell, 108 

What  sounds  arouse  me  from  my  slumbers  light  ? .    .    .  Sargent, 471 

What  though  I  sing  no  other  song  ? Winter, 661 

What  Chough  not  all, Akenside, 6 

What  though  short  thy  date ! E.  Young, 683 

What  though  the  chilly  wide-mouthed  quacking,  .    ,    ,  S.  T.  Coleridge, .    .    .  710 

What  thought  is  folded  in  thy  leaves  ! T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  11 

What  to  do  to  make  thy  fame, Mackay, 365 

What  wak'st  thou,  Spring?  Sweet  voices  in  the  woods,  Hemans, 260 

What  war  so  cruel,  or  what  siege  so  sore, E.  Spenser,     ....  525 

What  was  I  cannot  tell  —  thou  know'st  our  story, .    .    .  Howe, ,  ?<89 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES.  881 

What,  what  is  virtue,  but  repose  of  mind Thomson, 693 

What  wondrous  power  from  neaven  upon  thee  wrought  ?  Thaxter, 588 

What  would  I  save  thee  from,  dear  heart ! Gilder, 232 

What  would  life  keep  for  me  if  thou  should'st  go?    .    .    JennUon, 833 

When  at  eve  1  sit  alone,         H.  H.  Brownell,  ...  59 

When  beeches  brighten  early  May, Cheney, 812 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command Thomson, 597 

When  brooks  of  summer  shallow  run, Comwell, 815 

When  by  the  evening's  quiet  light, >    •    •    Lover, 347 

When  chance  or  cruel  business  parts  us  two,    ....     Cowley, 156 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street Bums, 695 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast Bums, 85 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, Byron, 92 

Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view, Canning, 708 

When  eve  is  purpling  clitf  and  cave, Croly, 178 

When  first  1  looked  into  thy  glorious  eyes, Whitman, 866 

When  first  religion  came  to  bless  the  land, Crabbe, 169 

When  first  the  oride  and  bridegroom  wed Stoddard, 540 

When  first  the  soul  of  love  is  sent  abroad, Thomson, 593 

When  first  thy  eyes  unveil,  give  thy  soul  leave,     .    .    .     Vaitahan, 624 

When  freedom  from  her  mountain  height, Dra/ce, 197 

When,  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, Sprague, 532 

When  God  at  first  made  man, Herbert, 263 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, C.  G.  Rossetti,    .    .    .  466 

When  I  am  turned  to  mouldering  dust, Boker, 80i 

When  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  Pursuit. T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  11 

When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleeping,    .    .    .  Motherwell,    ....  391 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent, Milton, 379 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be, Keats 310 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes,     .    .-    .    Shakespeare 488 

When  I  shall  be  divorced,  some  ten  years  hence,  .    .    ,  M.  Arnold,      ....  24 

When  I  shall  go, G.  P.  Lathrop,    ...  837 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, Scott, 479 

When  I  was  dead,  my  spirit  turned, C.  G.  Rossetti,     .    .    .  466' 

When  last  the  maple  bud  was  swelung, Gallagher, 820 

When  love  is  in  her  eyes, J^ciy, 222 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, Lamb, 325 

When  May,  with  cowslip^braided  locks, B.  Taylor, .....  567 

When  men  in  health  against  physicians  rail,      ....    Crabbe, 165 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, TV.  Collins,     ....  145 

When  once  thy  foot  enters  the  church,  be  bare,     .    .    .    Herbert \  264 

When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth,     .    .    .    Byron, 94 

When  the  drum  of  sickness  beats. Stoddard, 541 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended Dickinson, 187 

When  the  rose  is  brightest, Willis, 653 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld, Barnard, 30 

When  the  stern  genius,  to  whose  hollow  tramp,     .    .    ,    B.  Taylor, 565 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray, Parsons. 763 

When  to  soft  Sleep  we  give  ourselves  away T.  B.  Aldrich,    ...  11 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought,    ....  Shakespeare,  ....  489 

Where  are  you,  Sylvia,  where  ? Gosse 821 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear  ? Macdonald,    ....  359 

Where  honeysuckles  scent  the  way, F.  Bates, 32 

Where  is  the  dust  that  has  not  been  alive  ? E.  Young, 684 

Where  is  thy  favored  haunt,  eternal  voice, Keble, 314 

Where  now  the  rill,  melodious,  pure,  and  cool, ....    Beattie, 35 

Where  shall  we  find  a  perfect  life,  whereby, Richardson,    ....  469 

Where  slopes  the  beach  to  the  setting  sun, Savaae, 47? 

Where  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear  their  objects  find?.    .  S.Johnson,     ....  308 

Which  I  wish  to  remark  — Bret  Harte,     ....  729 

Wliilst  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power  ! Williams, 650 

White  daisies  on  the  meadow  green, Winter, 659 

White  stars  begin  to  prick  the  wan  blue  sky,     ....    Lazarus, 337 

Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see, Pope, 432 

Who  is  it  rides  with  whip  and  spur, W.  Young,      ....  358 

Whom  first  we  love,  you  know,  we  seldom  wed,     .    .    .  R.  B.  Lytton,  ....  840 

Whom  shall  we  praise  ? Mackay, 757 

Who  now  shall  grace  the  glowing  throne Sprague, 534 

"Who  often  reads  will  sometimes  wish  to  write,  ....    Crabbe, 169 


882  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES. 

Whose  is  the  gold  that  glitters  in  the  mine  ? Sigoumey^ fiOO 

Who  will  tell  me  the  secret,  the  cause, K^aij, 836 

Who  would  by  law  regain  his  plundered  store,  ....     Crabhe 164 

....  818 


Who  would  call  the  tench  a  whale, Tupper, 

Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene, Burns. 


Why  art  thou  colored  like  the  evening  sky, Thaxter, 587 

Why  art  thou  silent !  Is  thy  love  a  plant,  ......  Wordsworth,  ....  672 

Why,  death,  what  dost  thou  here,       C.  Cook, 812 

Why  don't  the  men  propose,  mamma? T.  H.  Bayly,  ....  688 

Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to  live  alone, Kehle. 315 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ! Sucklinq, 550 

Why  start  at  death  !  Where  is  he  ? E.  Young, 682 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  bighing, Setcall, 483 

Why  Avas  I  born,  and  where  was  i Cranck, 176 

Widow  Machree,  it's  no  wonder  you  frown, Lover, 747 

Wild  rose  of  Alloway  !  my  thanks  ; Halleck, 249 

Will  the  day  ever  come,  I  wonder, J.  C.  li.  Dorr, ....  193 

Wilt  thou  forgive  me  in  that  other  sphere, Moulton,     .....  845 

Winged  mimic  of  the  woods  !  thou  motley  fool !     .    .     .  JR.  B.  Wilde,  ....  649 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, Hood, 281 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees, Bead, 454 

Within  this  lowly  grave  a  Conqueror  lies, Bryant, 79 

With  irresolute  finger  he  knocked  at  each  one,  ...     .  B.  B.  Lytton.  ....  752 

With  my  beloved  1  lingered  late  one  night, G.  P.  Lathrop,   ...  334 

Without  your  showers, Freneau, 228 

With  the  same  letter  heaven  and  home  begui ,  .    .    .     .     Very, 627 

Woman's  faith  and  woman's  trust, Scott, 479 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! G.  P.  Norris,      ...  388 

Woods,  waters,  have  a  charm  to  soothe  the  ear,     .    .    .     Simms, 501 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams, Praed, 769 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around, Burns, 85 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, T.  Gray, 244 

Ye  field  flowers  !  the  gardens  eclipse  you,  'tis  true,    .    .     Campbell, ill 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  ! .     Campbell, 110 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor  ; Loivtll, 360 

Yes,  love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven  ; Byrov, 97 

Yes,  social  friend,  1  love  thee  well, Sprayiie .533 

Yes, 'twill  be  over  soon,  — H.  K.  White,.    ...  636 

Yes,  write,  if  you  want  to,  there's  nothing  like  trying ;  Holmes,.    ......  732 

Yet  of  his  little  he  had  some  to  spare, •     JJryden, 207 

Yet  once  more,  griever  at  Keglect Tvpper, 619 

"  Yet,  onward  still !"  the  spirit  cries  within,      .    ,    .     .     Simms, 501 

Yet,  though  thou  fade, H.  K.  White 636 

Ye've  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer, Willis, 652 

Yon  car  of  fire,  though  veiled  by  day, Lnnt, 838 

Yon  woodland,  like  a  human  mind, Hayne, 256 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried,  .  B.  Southey,     ....  517 

You  may  drink  to  your  leman  in  gold, Stoddard, 542 

Young  Ben,  he  was  a  nice  young  man, Hood, 740 

Young  Kory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn,    ....    Lover, 746 

Your  poem  must  eternal  be, S.  T.  Coleridge,  .    .    .  711 

You  think  you  love  me.  Marguerite, K.  P.  Osgood,     ...  403 

Vottiii.  sfAOuaiii  fled,— but  where  are  all  the  cliarms,    .    B.  Colendge 133 


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